


Déjà vu

by cobaltmoony, Cryo_Bucky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Bucky!Cap, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint/Nat (background), Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Modern Steve Rogers, PTSD, References to reincarnation/past lives, Steve/Sharon (minor past references), alternate MCU timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryo_Bucky/pseuds/Cryo_Bucky
Summary: Déjà vu - a French term describing the feeling that one has lived through the present situation before. The phrase translates literally as "already seen"Steve Rogers is the police Captain of a small mountain town. His life is quiet after serving overseas and he likes it that way - he gets to help people.Bucky Barnes is Captain America, despite the fact that some people hate him for the things he may have done in the 80’s. He’s just here to solve this case and go home. Right?





	1. City Slicker - Steve

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my collaboration for the Cap Reverse Big Bang this year! I was so grateful to work with Moony and she was such a joy throughout the entire process and has created amazing art pieces to go with the story! I'm proud of my fic and I hope that you all enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you also to NurseDarry for your help and patience with betaing and Claudia_Flies for your help with plot-holes. You guys are the best!

Steve notices them immediately. Tourists always stand out like sore thumbs in such a small logging town; there aren’t a whole lot of people that make it up this far north. Watching them over the rim of his thick diner coffee mug Steve tries to be subtle about sizing them up. They’re dressed like tourists, maybe a little warmly for the time of year, but there is an early-spring chill in the air. It stays cold up here longer than - he flicks his eyes to the cars parked neatly in the spaces out front of the diner - wow, Indiana? That’s a long drive. 

They could be the normal city kids on their way to Glacier Park, though this certainly wasn’t the most direct path. They got plenty of people through town just for that reason. There is something about them though that makes Steve take particular notice. Nothing about them screams danger, but they do seem to be trying a little too hard to be cordial, to pass off sweeping glances of the diner as interest in the rustic decorations. Maybe Steve is reading into it too much. 

The woman has shockingly red hair, cut into a razor sharp bob above her shoulders, her forest green quilt-padded parka doing nothing to keep her from looking tiny beside her companion. She seems more comfortable, open to talking to the hostess as she seats them - if it is some kind of act then she is more accustomed to playing. Or maybe he’s just an awkward guy. 

The man with her is disarmingly beautiful, all sharp jawline and perfectly styled chestnut hair buzzed short in the back but fluffy on top. Despite the distance, Steve is sure that his eyes are light, maybe blue or gray. He has on a more sensible coat, a military-style in a dark blue. When they turn to sit and the man shrugs off the jacket Steve catches the flash of silk lining the inside. But he’s more taken by the fact that the man is wearing a full-length charcoal turtleneck sweater and what look like driving gloves. Definitely a city kid. 

Steve turns back to the paper on the counter in front of him when the woman nearly catches him staring. He isn’t the only one looking at them, but he is the most subtle. Small town experience right off the bat if they were going to make such an effort to stick out. 

Downing the last dregs of his coffee Steve doesn’t concern himself further with the newcomers, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair and double-checking that he has his wallet stowed safely in his pocket. One or two of the regulars give him smiles and Randy Peterson wordlessly holds out his hand for Steve’s paper. Steve snorts out a laugh but hands it over regardless. It’s an old habit now. Small town living breeds routine and Steve has become, for better or worse, a man of habit. 

Sliding into the front seat of his Jeep, Steve shoves the hand-held radio into its port on the dash, flicking the police scanner back to the main hub before pulling out of his spot with the accompanying crunch of gravel. Time to go to the station for the day. The familiar drive through town leaves his mind free to wander, enjoying the breeze that rushes past him with the late-spring sun shining on everything as he rolls all the windows down.

The police station is fairly new, having been remodeled after a nasty forest fire had threatened the entire town just ten years ago, and neatly ordered rows of stainless steel letters proclaiming its function are tacked carefully to the brick facade. Not the most exciting of architecture but Steve never spends much time there anyway. Mostly his mornings are spent on any accrued paperwork before he fielded whatever sort of disaster such a small logging town could get into. 

Angling his Jeep into the side space he has unofficially claimed as his own Steve steps out, grabbing the stick-on siren light to bring inside with him. Things didn’t usually go missing, but he didn’t need a kid borrowing it for their bike. 

Sam is at the front desk and he turns a wide smile on Steve when he notices him, giving Steve a short wave before turning back to Kate who is helping him organize files. Kate was still fairly new, but her help with keeping things organized around the tiny station was sorely needed. Selfishly Steve hopes that she will stick around until after summer before going off to college. 

“Anything exciting this morning?” Steve asks on his way past the big D-shaped desk.

There is a large iced caramel coffee monstrosity leaving a melting ring on the counter, and Kate snatches it up to take a long sip before acknowledging Steve. 

“Nothing exciting yet. Sharon’s here but Clint is late again.” Kate rolls her eyes as she says it, pulling a sticky note off the pile to label a stack of photocopies. 

“So the usual.” Steve lifts his arm to give Sam a fist-bump on the way by, ignoring another exasperated expression from Kate. “Let me know if anything comes up.” 

After dropping the magnetic light onto Clint’s paper-strewn desk Steve fires off a messy salute to Sharon who is engrossed in a phone call that seems to be mostly her trying to reassure whoever is on the other end that a raccoon is not something that she needs to concern herself with, despite the fact that it seems to show no fear of the caller and was “freaky.” The desperate look that Sharon shoots him as Steve walks past makes him grin. 

Plopping into his office chair Steve carefully unsticks the notes that have been added to the edge of his calendar since yesterday, most of them in Kate’s neat handwriting, but one is in Sharon’s too. 

_Get a haircut._

Maybe it was time to get a trim. Steve runs his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck self-consciously while he checks his email. His hair is usually cut close on the back and sides and left a bit longer on top, not much upkeep for him and professional enough with the beard he is now sporting. Sharon hates the beard too but he isn’t going to get rid of it. When he brings his hand down, his bangs flop into his face and he sighs. Okay probably time for a trim. 

After typing out painfully polite responses to the few important emails that he has been putting off, Steve browses the open cases that are in the now-neatened pile on his desk. Kate has been putting in more time than he thought. 

The files don’t give him any new information than when he had spent time pouring over them yesterday, but he still takes the time to look at them again with fresh eyes. There are only three open cases - and they’re all cold cases by weeks now. Missing people. 

It isn’t unusual for people go to missing in the forest, especially when they don’t know what they’re doing. Of course there had been searches, but there is only so much that can be done when the town is surrounded by miles and miles of logging and state-owned forest. If people go missing up here it isn’t often that they were found. It’s not an easy weight to bear that after this long they aren’t likely to appear. 

Steve is shaken from his gloomy thoughts by the sounds of his team greeting Clint, who had apparently finally decided to show up after 11am. It’s easy to track his progress through the station without Steve having to look up from his desk, and he’s not surprised to see Clint when he pokes his head around Steve’s door. 

“Hey Cap, sorry I’m late.” 

“Again.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him and Clint just shrugs, a sheepish grin on his face. “You get to take the squad car today.” 

Deciding not to dignify Clint’s exaggerated whine with an answer, Steve instead stands, only to kneel and open his arms for Lucky when the big golden mutt lopes around the corner, tags jingling. Clearly the dog had made his rounds begging for extra breakfast and now Steve can pet him. Lucky shoves his cold nose into Steve’s hand and threatens the rubber plant in the corner with his tail as Steve scratches him behind his ears.   
“Actually I’ll go out with you. There’s honestly not much for me to do here,” Steve says after fending off Lucky’s attention. 

Clint whistles and Lucky obediently leaves Steve alone, following after the pair of them and only looking a little doe-eyed as Clint takes up one paw after the other to get Lucky into his vest. While he isn’t a vicious K9 agent trained to take down bad guys, Lucky is a good search and rescue dog, as well as being the unofficial mascot of the whole department. Clint makes sure to grab the truly gigantic thermos of coffee from his desk before following Steve back out into the parking lot. Steve snags the squad light. 

“I’m leaving Sam in charge! I have my radio!” Steve shouts before the door closes behind them, throwing a wave over his shoulder.   
After watching Lucky leap happily into the passenger seat of one of their two actual squad cars, Steve heaves himself up into his Jeep again, grabbing his sunglasses from his visor before pulling onto the street. 

The main drag of the tiny town is bustling, or as bustling as it ever gets. Steve drives slowly down the wide street, taking the opportunity to wave at people. There’s a speed trap just outside of town that he knows Clint will likely set up camp near; better to keep people that are just passing through on their way to bigger and better things in check. There are plenty of kids and pets in the area and Steve is far more worried about them than where these drivers are trying to get to. 

Turning in a wide loop away from the highway and hitting the far end of the main road where it splits into logging turn-offs Steve’s police radio crackles. 

“Hey Captain.” Sharon’s voice crackles through the radio and Steve grabs at the receiver.

“I seem to remember getting a promotion somewhere in there.” Steve grins at the exasperated noise that he gets in return. It seems that Clint isn’t alone in forgetting Steve’s newest title. After working hard to come up through the ranks, Steve is now the Police Chief, though this is his first official year since the old man had retired around Christmas time to go south with his wife and grandchildren. Steve doesn’t mind the others still calling him Captain, but any excuse to rib them is not going to go unnoticed. 

“Sorry, habit.” Sharon continues, “If you’re majesty isn’t too busy, then I got a call about some kids messing around at the quarry. Clint’s squad car isn’t going to make it there easily.” 

“Yeah, I’ll head up there right now, thanks Sharon. Steve out.” Steve shifts into reverse and takes off up one of the logging roads. 

The old quarry is in the middle of nowhere. It’s a popular spot for teenagers, but spring run-off and residual mud and hidden ice patches had made it dangerous until summer proper. There’s a service gate that’s meant to be kept closed until after school was out for the year and the sun had sufficiently rendered the trapped water warm and safe enough for the teenagers to splash around in. There isn’t much that Steve can do besides chase the kids off for now and warn them that they aren’t allowed to come back until the drainage ditches open in the summer. 

The road up to the quarry isn’t maintained anymore, but there’s enough traffic that the path mostly stays manageable for anyone with a big truck, and Steve’s isn’t the only Jeep in town. It still takes a while before Steve is bumping his way around the corner and can see a pair of mud-covered trucks parked near the top of the road. The shadows are getting long and the sun is starting to dip, but he can hear the shrieks of kids and the splash of water. Pulling to a stop, Steve pushes the door open and steps out, straightening his vest out of habit and also to keep it from pinching under his arms. 

His heavy military boots crunch loudly on the gravel, but Steve isn’t trying to hide. It isn’t long before he hears scrambling and cursing from the other side of the trucks, and by the time he pokes his head around, the kids are out of the water and trying to look casual as if he hadn’t just caught them. 

“Do I need to give you guys this talk again?” Steve glares them down, crossing his arms over his chest, his rolled-up sleeves only serving to emphasise the cut of his chest. He knows these kids, and they know they’ve been caught. One of them - Aaron - opens his mouth to argue but is cut off by the loud whine of Steve’s radio. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Steve mutters to himself, giving the kids another glare before breaking his intimidating stance. “Just get out of here kids, it’s too late for you to be up here anyway. Go home and I won’t call your mothers.” 

He doesn’t stick around to watch them scramble into their vehicles, jogging over to his Jeep and snatching up the squawking radio.   
“Clint, I missed you, say again?” Steve holds the radio up to his ear only to go pale when Clint’s panicked voice relays the message.   
“Fire in the forest, looks like someone set one of the rental cabins up. It’s on Clover. The guy that called it in said he saw a car head up the road about an hour ago, a sleek black sedan, but no one’s rented that cabin this year.” 

“Go and pick up Sam and meet me there.” Steve is already climbing back into his Jeep, “I can’t say for sure, but I have a hunch. Meet me over there.”   
He is much less careful on his way back down the mountain, jerking his wheel onto one of the even rougher roads and slowing down enough to switch into proper four-wheel drive when he starts to run into rocks and tree roots. This should put him close to Clover, and while he should wait for Clint to call him back, he isn’t going to wait around when a fire could spread to the trees and cause a widespread problem. 

It’s properly dark by the time that Steve crashes through the underbrush and onto the road that he’s looking for. He sees a glow in the distance and skids his Jeep to a halt when he makes out that the fire was just ashes by now. Whoever had lit up this cabin had known exactly what they were doing. He hops out to examine the scene, worry creasing his brow. Why burn down a leisure cabin in the first place? 

Steve freezes when he hears shouting in the distance. He knows there’s another cabin further along, and he doesn’t think a moment longer before grabbing the gun out of his thigh holster and skirting through the trees. He can’t see anything beyond the undergrowth for several long minutes, and he uses a large tree as cover when he comes within sight of the cabin. 

The redheaded woman and her male companion are standing together by the door, and there are a handful of men that seem to be scattered around them on the ground in varying stages of unconsciousness. Steve creeps closer, jaw clenched with adrenaline. He doesn’t know who these people are but he trains his gun on them as he creeps through to the next tree. Soon he’s close enough to hear them speaking to each other.   
“We sure they aren’t just crazy eco-terrorists or country weirdos?” The man has a drawl in his voice that Steve did not expect. East Coast somewhere, maybe New York? 

“No, James.” The woman sounds annoyed, settling her weight on one leg and crossing her arms, “they’re not just gun-nuts.” The woman’s accent is much more carefully schooled, impossible to gather any information from. She could be anyone if not for the bright red hair.

“We’re gun-nuts.” James lifts his arm like he wants to nudge her and then seems to think better of it.

Steve watches the exchange through the break in the trees, knowing that Sam and Clint have to be close by now. Whoever these people are they’re not tourists. The snap of a branch out in the trees makes all of them look up, the redhead with a gun in her hand before Steve can blink, and the guy dropping into a defensible crouch. 

Steve waits for another sound to keep them distracted before he bursts out of the trees and bowls the guy over, hoping to catch the woman as well. He isn’t so lucky - hitting the guy is like hitting a brick wall - but he does manage to pin him on his front and Steve wastes no time leveling his pistol at the back of his head. 

Who are you?” Steve snarls, grip tight on the gun in his hand, “What the hell are you doing here?” 

The redhead woman curses in a language Steve doesn’t know, gun trained on him. The man Steve is currently digging his knees into grinds out words in the same tone - Russian? 

The man, James, grabs Steve’s arm and physically heaves Steve off him, reversing their positions and sitting right on Steve’s back until Steve’s wheezing. 

“I’m Captain America, you jackass.” James hisses in his ear, just as Steve catches the glint of his metal hand in the pale light, no longer hidden by his driving gloves. 

Steve immediately stops fighting, though it’s clear that he isn’t going to make any headway as soon as he awkwardly slaps at the arm over his shoulders. It’s like hitting a granite statue. 

“Get off him. He’s not a threat.” The woman’s cool voice rankles Steve but at least it makes the man on his back get off his lungs. 

Steve gets one arm under himself and gets to his feet, trying not to wheeze or sway in place. He’s only human. 

“I know that, Tasha. Next time I’ll let him shoot at you.” James, Captain America, gripes, hands on his belt-buckle and his stance relaxed.   
Steve wants to shoot at him just for saying that, but manages to pull himself together enough not to curse them both out. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?” 

“Classified,” ‘Tasha says as if by reflex. 

Steve bristles at her disinterested tone, but he’s still reeling from the fact that he’s standing in front of Captain America, and apparently, Black Widow. He’s briefly hit with the memory of watching old news footage of the aftermath of the Chitauri Invasion. He had learned about Captain America in school, but the tired man on the tiny screen with Steve out in the desert had seemed very far away from the storybook hero. The Widow however, seems exactly the way he would have expected. Before Steve can think of anything snappish to say in reply, there’s a crashing through the trees and Sam and Clint barrel into the clearing, guns at the ready. 

“Put your hands up!” Sam barks, gun held tightly in position in front of him. Natasha simply shifts her weight and levels Sam with a truly terrifying smile.   
Clint recovers first and notices Steve, lowering his gun slightly. “Hey Cap, Uh-” 

Steve doesn’t know where to begin, and Sam quickly lowers his gun as well, but doesn’t relax the way Clint does. 

“Well it’s nice to meet you boys but we have to be going.” James smiles at Steve now, mouth curving in a truly sinful way and his eyes crinkling around the edges. 

Steve is not disarmed the way that James likely is hoping. “This is a crime scene. I can’t just let you leave!”

“I don’t think you can really stop-” James is rounding on him, his smirk still solidly in place until the Widow steps between them, resting her hand gently on James’s bicep. 

“We’re glad to accompany you fine officers back to town.” 

Steve nearly argues with her he’s so caught off guard by the change in tone, but instead he just nods stiffly and turns to head back to his Jeep. 

“We’ll gladly escort you back to town.”


	2. Country Boy - Bucky

Bucky grumbles to himself as he drops back into the passenger seat of Natasha’s town car, glaring at the tail lights of the Police Captain’s Jeep in front of them as they bump down the poorly maintained road back to town. Calling it a town is honestly the stretch of the century; there can’t be more than a thousand people in the town proper and the surrounding cabins. Bucolic is too good a term for the place, and no, Bucky is certainly not just _salty._ Or whatever the new vernacular was for feeling your pride come away bruised when you let your guard down for one second and get pinned by a civilian. 

“I don’t understand why we’re working with them. They don’t have any idea what’s going on.” Bucky picks at dirt stuck into the plates of his metal hand, feeling tired and mulish. He doesn’t want to deal with these small-town officers right now, even when they’re pretty and blond and built like the fucking Empire State Building. 

Natasha doesn’t take her eyes off the darkened road to reply to him, just taps her nails on the wheel instead. “We don’t know what’s going on either. Maybe they know something. You shouldn’t discredit them.” 

Turning to frown at her, Bucky asks, “Who are you and what have you done with Natasha? You actually want to trust these…strangers?” 

Natasha actually smiles, sharp and sly. “I have a good feeling about them. Plus, I like seeing you knocked on your ass.” 

Bucky is somewhat stunned by her no-frills answer and simply sits back in his seat to watch their little procession of vehicles turn out onto the main road. He had learned over the years that while her actions might seem crazy, she did know what she was doing. Natasha had pulled his ass out of enough fires.

Night is still fully upon them by the time that they reach the police station, more stars than Bucky thinks he has ever seen twinkling down at him through the clear sky. Bucky vaguely remembers driving past the station the first time - it has to be the newest building in town. Judging by their Police Captain there were a lot of new things around this sleepy town. 

Bucky obediently slides out of the car when they stop, and does not watch Captain - the name badge on his bulletproof vest says “Rogers” - hop down out of his Army green Jeep and open up the door of the station. 

Natasha turns and gives another one of those sharp smiles to one of the officers that had come up late, but before Bucky can figure out what game she’s playing he recoils as a cold and wet dog nose is shoved into his flesh hand. He barely manages to bite back an unattractive “eugh” noise, wrenching his hand away from the dog as it wiggles happily at him. It’s wearing a police vest, but it doesn’t exactly scream “terrifying police dog”. Having only one eye helps in that assessment. 

By the time that Bucky looks up from the dog everyone else is waiting for him in the open door of the police station. Through sheer force of will Bucky keeps his expression neutral and quickly joins them inside, the police dog plodding along behind him. 

The office is small, really just a large reception desk and then two sets of open-plan office desks with a big glass-fronted room in the back. It doesn’t look much like a police station. What if they had to actually arrest someone? Bucky squints at everything around them, trying to reconcile this room with the police stations he had been in in New York, both back in Brooklyn before the war and more recently. Even that one in Atlanta- 

“Didn’t you bring your shield?” Bucky turns to see one of the officers regarding him cooly, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised. His name badge says “Wilson” and he looks Bucky over again before continuing, “Not exactly who I was expecting to run into out in the forest committing arson.” 

“We didn’t commit arson!” Bucky hisses, “The cabin was already burning by the time we got to it, and my shield is in the car.” 

“Can we see it?” The other officer - name tag says Barton - seems practically giddy, and he has his fingers buried in the fur of the police dog that is now leaning against his leg. 

Before Bucky can say anything more Big-Blond-and-Bull-headed returns to break up the party, ruffling the police dog’s ears and murmuring something to Wilson before gesturing for Bucky and Natasha to follow him. Bucky does not marvel at the width of his shoulders as he leads them into the back office. 

Turns out Police Captain Rogers is actually Police Chief Rogers, and isn’t that something. He looks a little young and a little too in-shape to fit the stereotype, but the brooding expression he levels upon his two visitors certainly fits. 

“What are you two doing here, and if you say _classified_ -” 

Natasha’s mouth is already open to tell him exactly that but instead her phone buzzes, loud in the quiet office. She fishes it out of a pocket that Bucky can’t even see to answer it, quiet for a few long moments as she listens to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. Bucky’s cell phone doesn’t even have service up here. Clearly someone is holding out on him. 

“Understood.” Natasha turns back to them, holding her hand out to Rogers, “Sorry that we can’t stay and chat, but we’re being picked up for another mission. We’ll be in touch.” 

“I’d prefer if you weren’t. But if you need to come back into town call me.” He shakes her hand and Bucky feels abruptly snubbed that Rogers doesn’t turn to shake his hand too, not that Bucky was offering. It’s obvious that Rogers can’t keep them here, and he’s smart enough not to try, but Bucky can also see that it’s grating on him to just let them go with hardly a word. 

“Nice to meet you, Rogers.” The sharp smile is back on Natasha’s face and Bucky can’t figure out what the hell that is. 

“Steve, please.” Rogers, Steve, replies. 

Natasha touches Bucky’s arm gently and Bucky snaps out of staring at the pictures and plaques decorating the wall behind Steve’s desk. He doesn’t say anything more as he follows her out, putting on what he hopes is a convincing smile when faced with Barton and Wilson who are both trying to look like they’re not falling asleep standing up. 

“Sorry boys, we’re getting out of your hair earlier than we thought.” Natasha holds the door open for Bucky and Bucky can’t resist turning to look one last time at Steve’s office. 

He immediately catches Steve’s eye as he’s stands leaning against the side of the door, and before Bucky can pretend his double-take was anything, else Rogers snaps off a lazy salute to him and Bucky wants to flip him off. He turns and stomps toward the car instead, ignoring Natasha’s laughter.

“He seems like a nice guy, huh?” Natasha is grinning and Bucky considers for a moment leaping out onto the pavement. 

“An asshole maybe. What was that anyway? Working with them?” 

“I wanted to see what they knew. Plus, Rogers is cute, yeah?” 

Bucky’s head whips over to stare at her, dumbfounded for a moment until she breaks out into giggles. 

“Is this seriously you trying to hook me up again? I am not interested in _that guy!_ He’s an asshole! Did you see the size of his shoulders? No one with that triangular of a body shape is up to any good.” 

Natasha just grins and turns up the radio to hum along, thankfully giving Bucky a respite from any jabs about being such an idiot. Bucky can do that himself. What they should be focusing on was the fact that they had been wrong. 

They drive to the closest proper city, and take a private charter from there to DC. Throughout the ride Bucky is antsy to the point that his metal arm whirrs loudly as they make their descent into Reagan airport. 

“You sound like a computer processor overheating.” Natasha looks completely at ease as she files her nails in the seat across from him, waiting for the plane to bump onto the tarmac. 

Bucky makes an admittedly childish snorting noise at her in reply, grabbing his duffle bag and leading the way to the car that’s awaiting them. 

Natasha doesn’t even ask him before she hops into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m just thinking about the mission,” Bucky finally says, “I don’t believe those guys would give up so easily.” 

Natasha doesn’t say anything more, but she does pop in a piece of gum to chew on, weaving through the streets toward the Shield main office. Bucky has never been able to tell what she’s thinking, but he hopes that she’s at least considering the fact that there could be more going on. If it was something bad, then there was no way that little town was safe. 

By the time that the elevator stops to let Bucky out into his personal quarters he is drained. Between the jetlag and the fact that they hadn’t actually slept last night in all the commotion, he’s practically dragging his feet. His brain is still running at a thousand miles a minute, and a migraine has started up behind his left eye. He doesn’t spend much time here, preferring to find bad guys to punch or secret plots to foil, but there is a comfortable bed and an office that he can put to use the few days of the year he’s here. It’s unofficial but still maintained for him in case he needs to use it. It seems like a huge waste of resources to Bucky, but since he’d told Shield to go fuck themselves his first week in the public eye, they had been more than interested in keeping him close. His continued work with Natasha hinges on being able to work within Shield, even if he doesn’t like it. 

Bucky doesn’t want to be _that guy,_ but his thoughts keep cycling back around to Officer Rogers. _Steve._ Natasha seems convinced that Bucky has a crush, or at least insinuated that Steve was hot and available, but it wasn’t that, was it? They hadn’t exactly started off on friendly terms. Plus Rogers is a jerk. Only a real asshole would think they can just order him around. He doesn’t owe anything to these country boys. They’re Avengers and they had their own debts to keep. 

Thinking about Steve set him pacing back and forth in the living room, fingers tightening into fists at the memory of the cheeky grin on Steve’s lips when they had left the station. Bucky had wanted to knock him down a peg - had thought he’d done that in the woods, but that was only after Steve had managed to catch them unawares. 

Still grumbling to himself Bucky flops onto his computer chair, one leg hooked over the arm as he pulls his keyboard into his lap. Natasha had surely done background checks on the area and relevant people, but apparently she had decided that there was no point in sharing any of that information with him. 

Unsurprisingly, just typing in Steve Rogers doesn’t give him any relevant information, but the addition of the name of the city helps a bit. There are the expected articles - Steve’s promotion to Police Captain and then to Chief, along with a few small clips from the local paper about the department - but nothing personal. Bucky can’t figure out why that bothers him so much. Steve is clearly just...a guy. If his interviews in the paper are anything to go by, he may be a very earnest and upstanding type of guy, but still just...normal. 

Bucky manages to work his way into a military server before he hits a restriction wall. He’d seen the service medal in its little case tacked neatly to the wall beside the others, along with an official photo of a military unit in the station, but now he’s staring at an “access denied” page. It had taken him a few hours just to get into the relevant server, even with his credentials, and now there’s actually a firewall that he can’t just click past? Licking his lips absently Bucky clicks open a new window to run an override that should get him through, only to groan when a progress bar comes up along with the time. Forty minutes remaining. _40 minutes?_

Leaning back in his chair Bucky rests his head and props the leg not over the arm of the chair up onto the desk, settling in to watch the little bar creep its way forward, eyes heavy. 

His dreams are like movies, playing through Bucky’s head on repeat. Sometimes he’s an active character, sometimes a bystander watching himself act. Other times he’s trapped in a body that won’t move, forced to watch horrors play out in front of him. 

This dream isn’t like any of those. He feels soft and formless, no desire to look down at himself and see if he has a body at all, just drifting through space. He remembers these streets vaguely, hazy cars and blurry figures, all toned with sepia and soft-edged. Like a camera lense smeared with Vaseline. 

His memories of the time before the war are like this. Before Europe and Hydra and the serum everything was soft and golden and good, at least comparably, and his brain had little desire to remind him of it. 

The occasional memory breaks though, his ma hanging clothes on the line while his sisters played hopscotch and drew on the sidewalk with the last bits of chalk. But this wasn’t his house. He’s somewhere in the depths of Brooklyn, that much is clear, but while his formless self seems to know exactly where they’re headed he’s at a loss. 

He drifts past a theater and began to feel a bit more solid. Slowing down, he can feel his arms and legs tingling like they had been asleep. Both arms. He looks down as his feet lead him along the street. Both flesh arms are clad in military drab. As if the scene is slowly constructing itself around him, he feels a hat drop onto his head from above, and reaches up unconsciously to pull it down at a jaunty angle, tucking his hair under the brim. There’s air on the back of his neck and he realizes that this is him from before. The day that he shipped out. Hair not quite military standard, uniform pressed but hat askew. The wool is itchy, he can feel it already, but he has places to be. 

What place? 

Another turn, his body checking the alley beside the theater out of habit - no, no one there. He continues on. 

Twisting his way through the city, Bucky stops to get a paper from one of the boys on the corner, surprised to find change in his pocket. He gives the boy a grin and an extra nickel, folding the paper under his arm. 

He hums, actually hums, as he takes two more turns and heads up the stairs of one of the many tenement buildings that litter this section of town, practically jogging up the stairs. 

Bucky feels a bit sick, like everything is trying to tilt sideways, the him of his memories warring with the him of now locked as an observer. 

There is a door at the end of the walk-up, and Bucky kicks over a chunk of brick to reveal a key and open it. 

Inside is dark. There’s a small window in the kitchen area, but that seems to be the only light. 

There’s music playing somewhere in the depths of that darkness, though it’s warped and tinny, words he can’t quite understand. 

“Hey punk!” Bucky shouts, too loud into the quiet and dim space, “You still here?” 

There is movement in the darkness, the squeal of bedsprings and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat as a man emerges from the gloom of the bedroom. 

“Hey Buck. I didn’t leave without ya.” 

Bucky’s heart stops in his chest, and he feels the world around him threaten to swoop again. Steve is standing in front of him. Steve Rogers, the cop from that tiny mountain town, but with a thick Brooklyn accent and maybe half the height. 

He’s tiny, back somewhat hunched, and as he stretches, Buck can see that his sleep shirt hangs off him, threadbare in places. The light from the window catches him and Bucky feels dizzy for real. He’s so beautiful, sharp cheekbones and soft hair with the bluest eyes Bucky has ever seen. He’s almost painful to look at in the golden light, like a fine statue at a gallery. 

“You okay there, pal?” Tiny Steve steps closer, and only through sheer force of will does Bucky keep from stepping back. 

“Oh,” Steve exclaims, hands coming up to brush over Bucky’s chest, smoothing non-existent wrinkles out of his dress uniform, “You get your orders?” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but Tiny Steve nods as if he has. 

“Guess we should go out for your last night then. Wish I was going with you.” 

_The war doesn’t deserve you._ Bucky’s hands are shaking as he sets the paper down on the table by the door, shaking as he brushes his thumb over Steve’s cheek, just to make sure he’s real. 

Steve looks up at him, blue eyes filled with so many emotions that Bucky can’t put a name to. 

Steve flickers for a moment, then reappears across the room, leaning over and digging through a pile of records. Bucky watches intently, hands dropping back to his sides. 

“What about this one, Buck? You love Billie Holiday.” Steve holds one up toward the couch, Bucky can see it now that his eyes have adjusted to the gloom. He isn’t on the couch, though, but this memory of Steve clearly sees him there. 

Bucky stands stone still by the doorway, watching Tiny Steve flicker in and out, replaying memories. Memories of Bucky and him together, even if he only gets to hear Steve’s side of things. They argue, they dance together on the rug in front of the couch. Buck watches Steve get sick, and then sicker, and then somewhat better again. The piles of books and records grow and recede. 

Suddenly Steve is in front of him again, a sharp grin on his lips, Bucky nearly jumps. 

“You going to show me how to salute now that you’re a proper military man?” Steve’s tone is teasing, and he raises his hand and snaps off a lazy salute only to throw his head back and laugh. 

Bucky does stumble back this time as Steve flickers several times in quick succession, back and forth like those picture puzzles that let you put the bird into the cage. The big Police Captain Rogers, with his lopsided grin and floppy hair, and this new sharp-edged smaller Steve. He flicks back and forth fast enough to leave Bucky feeling queasy. 

“Stop!” Bucky closes his eyes before he can be sick, burying his head in his hands. Two flesh and bone hands. He feels a touch against his arm and jerks, and suddenly he’s falling. 

He falls out of his desk chair, slamming into the floor in a pile of uncoordinated limbs and half-formed curses. He’s drenched in sweat like he’s been running miles. Only once Bucky can force himself to focus and contain his breathing does he realize it’s Natasha that’s leaning over him. Her expression is extremely concerned. 

“I think that might be one of a handful of times I’ve snuck up on you.” Natasha’s got her hair up in a complicated braid today, and she looks far too spry for this early in the morning. He’d long since given up any pretense of trying to keep her out of his rooms. Why bother when he would rather have her here anyway? She always shows up early to get his ass out of bed and on to the next thing that needs their attention.

It is early, right? 

Bucky sighs, sitting up and wincing as his head pounds, his makeshift office swimming around him for a long moment as he tries to brush off the remainder of the dream.

“I brought bagels.” Natasha doesn’t say anything more before breezing out of the room, leaving Bucky to pick himself up literally and figuratively.   
When Bucky joins her in the kitchen after splashing some water onto his face in an effort to further wake himself up, he finds Natasha toasting bagels and spinning a butter knife absently in one hand while reading the label of one of several types of cream cheese laid out on the counter. 

Bucky scrubs his hands through his hair, not caring in the slightest that it makes it stick up something awful. He silently takes the coffee that Natasha hands him without taking her eyes off the bagel in the toaster. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you this morning ‘Tasha, but why are you here?” 

“Short version is that I think you’re right. There has to be more going on in that town.” Natasha expertly pulls out the bagel slices and rips a piece off hers to swipe through the cream cheese in her other hand. “So I said you would go back and check it out.” 

Bucky nearly inhales his coffee, setting it down and trying to swallow properly. “What? Why?” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “I figured you would jump at the chance to take a break from Avenger-ing.” 

Bucky levels a glare at her. “I assume you filed all the transfers already, so I can’t back out.” 

Natasha’s position with Shield technically puts her as his supervisor, though she rarely pulls rank on him. She must be serious about this.   
Natasha cheerfully hands him his bagel and nudges the other cream cheese toward him. “Of course. You’ll love getting to know the rustic atmosphere.” 

“I hate rustic. I got way too much rustic tromping around Europe,” Bucky grumbles, flicking crumbs at her, “Who did you threaten to get them to send me, of all people? Could have just as easily sent a low-level agent to keep an eye on the town.” 

“I’ll never tell.”


	3. Artful Dodger - Bucky

Steve rides around on a motorcycle when he’s not in his police Jeep. A big old Harley that looks like he pulled it straight out of the war. Bucky doesn’t even want to know where he got it. He’s also cut his hair, buzzed the sides shorter but left the top fluffy. Bucky has the strangest desire to run his hands through it - or maybe just pull on it, he can’t decide. 

Bucky is supposed to be making observations about the town. He knows that it’s small, but the fact that he sees the same dozen faces walk by his motel every day? It freaks him out a little. All his life he’s been surrounded by people, in Brooklyn, in the Army, in Shield, and now he’s out here like a raw nerve surrounded by people who know he’s an outsider. It rankles against his training. Blend in, assimilate, don’t draw attention while you wait for your target. Everyone here knows he’s Captain America. Clearly someone can’t keep their mouth shut. 

The dreams don’t stop either, twisting themselves around whatever he’s seen for the day. Tiny Steve perched delicately on that big motorcycle and laughing with his whole body while darkness swirls around him and the whistle of ammunition falls ever closer. Bucky feels stretched thin after every dream, like he’s stuck between awake and asleep. Maybe if he turns too fast the dream will scatter like smoke, except that he’s awake now and his head is splitting. He drinks a lot of coffee and takes way too many aspirin in an effort to help his focus. 

There is only one motel in town, and it looks more like a bed and breakfast. The old couple that owns it is still younger than Bucky, but only just. They are kind to him, offering him extra fresh-baked bread if he helps them fix up their well. The man, Henry, is a veteran, served thirty years in the Air Force. Every morning Bucky comes up with a new way to rib for his fly-boy host, and it makes Henry beam and laugh every time. Even as he tells Bucky where he can shove it. 

There isn’t a lot going on in this town, even for Bucky, who is carefully cataloging anything that might hint at something bad going down. He retraces his steps to the cabins from their previous altercation and pokes through the debris. He tries to keep himself busy with not much to do.

He avoids Steve fairly successfully, despite Steve’s attempts to… whatever it is he’s trying to do. If Steve didn't smile at him like the cat that got the canary every time Bucky lets out a furious noise, then Bucky would think Steve hates him. As it is, Steve seems to be more in the realm of excited golden retriever, always popping up when Bucky least expects it, and then leaving with some biting remark. Bucky wants to strangle him. How dare he with his shoulders and his eyelashes and his country-boy impression. Bucky has Googled him. He knows Steve is from the city. He isn’t so smart.

The people in town speak highly of Steve when he comes up in conversation, and Bucky is surprised by their seeming complete faith in him, despite the fact that Steve has been in town less than ten years.

It isn’t that he’s hiding from the guy, but looking at him makes him feel a little sick. The world keeps threatening to slide sideways whenever he dreams about a Steve That Isn’t. 

He finds there’s a difference between Police Captain Rogers and Steve. Steve is good at his job, but any time that Bucky happens to see him around town helping old ladies cross the road or whatever it is that the Police Captain of a small town does to fill his time, it somehow rings off-tune to him. Like maybe Steve is doing this out of obligation, or some sense of duty. 

After a week Bucky swings back around into angry. Why is it like this? Why can’t his egg salad of a brain give it up? Either give him something solid to work with or stop torturing him with this. He doesn’t know Steve, there’s no reason for him to be so fixated on him. Stupid Rogers has no right to make him feel so jumbled up - their only interactions have been a fist-fight and some barbed words. Steve is a nice guy, maybe gets a kick out of teasing Bucky upon their every meeting, but that isn’t the same as actually liking Bucky. There’s no point in wasting time getting attached to Steve when he was just going to leave as soon as this mission was done. Bucky had no need to make anything harder for himself, whether his brain tried to play tricks on him or not.

He hasn’t felt this discombobulated since his first few weeks out of the ice. He’d been doing well, goddamn it. Now Bucky feels like he’s taken a huge step backwards in any sense of recovery. The dreams, memories, whatever they were, are prompting more things that his brain has repressed. He remembers the cold seeping into his bones, he remembers his last breath, and the first one when they’d started to defrost him. They’ve renamed it, soldier’s heart, battle fatigue, shell shock, PTSD. It’s all the same thing, but knowing what to call it doesn’t make it any easier to handle. 

It takes longer than Bucky would have thought for someone to yell at him in the street. People must be nicer here in the country, or maybe they just keep their opinions to themselves a little better. 

He stops in at the diner, conveniently just up the road from his temporary residence, to refill his travel mug and absently flirt with the waitress. She loves to gossip, and he always takes the time to compliment her beautiful hair. Despite the fact that she always tells him off for his flirting, she’s stopped dying her hair after he’d told her he thought the silver streaking into the blonde was charming. 

Booking it across the street between traffic is second nature, and Bucky hardly looks up as he scrolls through the notes on his phone, coffee hot enough to warm his metal hand through the cup. 

“Hey Cap!” 

Bucky makes it to the other side of the street before he turns to see a rather dilapidated man scowling at him. 

“Can I help you?” Bucky is still getting used to being recognized on the street. He’s worn his sleep shirt over to the cafe, worn Army logo emblazoned on the front and metal arm in full view; not much effort into hiding his identity. 

The man takes a few steps closer, looks Bucky over, and takes one back, scowl deepening. “We don’t want you here. You’re no captain of mine. Murderer.” 

Bucky’s shoulders tense, metal arm whirring loudly enough for the man to take another step backwards.

It’s difficult to yell at someone who doesn’t fight back, doesn’t get angry or react in any way. Bucky lets the man’s anger wash over him until he’s finished. Just stands there with his cooling coffee. 

He’s heard it before. If he didn’t have a thick skin then he would be in the wrong business. It’s nothing he doesn’t think of himself in the last few hours of night. 

_Not worthy. Traitor. Murderer. Liar._

He only realizes that he’s shaking because his coffee bubbles out onto his metal hand, sensors dimly registering the heat. He remembers everything that had been said to him after New York, after the Chitauri. There’d been people who’d supported him, but most people had been angry at him. Angry that he had disappeared in the 40’s, angry that he hadn’t made his reappearance known until 2011, angry at the information in the files that had leaked out about him. Who could get behind a Captain America who took on covert ops and killed people with his bare hands? They didn’t think he was worthy, that the blood on his hands was sullying the image of him that they had built up during his absence. They weren’t wrong.

Bucky only checks back in when he hears the shriek of tires, looking up to see Steve hopping out of his Jeep, closing in on their little show. Of course. 

“There a problem here?” Steve’s tone is even, but Bucky can tell that Steve is angry by the tightness in his ridiculous shoulders. 

Whatever the other man stutters out in response is drowned out by the roaring in Bucky’s ears. How dare Steve try to come save him. He’s Captain Fucking America, he can handle himself. Once the man has scampered off, when Steve turns to look at Bucky, there’s a softness in his eyes that Bucky can’t stand. Pity. 

“I had it handled,” Bucky snarls. Steve rocks back on his heels, eyes widening, “He wasn’t saying anything I haven’t heard before. Don’t need you to rescue me, _Captain._ ”  
“But-” Steve starts before he cuts himself off and raises his chin, likely amping up for an argument about Bucky’s honor or something. 

Bucky doesn’t want to hear it this morning. He turns on his heel and stalks back down to the motel. Thankfully Steve doesn’t follow him. 

Captain America does not pout, but Bucky Barnes isn’t above it. He hides in his room and has a small, private pity party. It’s been a few months since people stopped him on the street to yell at him, but he should have known he wouldn’t be free of it. 

After a few hours of self-loathing and caffeine Bucky takes a shower and gets dressed, opting for the black and white bomber jacket after wrestling with his hair into something that less resembles a beehive. 

The woman of the house, Deanne, is one of few words, and when she sees Bucky heading back out she silently holds out what turns out to be a peanut butter sandwich carefully wrapped in a paper towel so he can hold it and walk. He salutes her with the sandwich and takes a big bite as he makes it back outside. 

He has to go to the police station. He’s poured over every digital file they have, looking for information on what those men might have been doing in the woods. A police report, a sighting of some stranger in a close-knit town. It’s hardly anything to go on, but whoever these guys are Natasha is looking at their paper trail, and he’s left with the shit job of figuring out why they chose here of all places. There are old files at the station that he needs to sift through; old enough that they’re not digitized. A wash of gratitude fills Bucky when he sees that Steve’s Jeep isn’t parked in its usual spot. It’s too easy to track the movements of the people in this town. Creatures of habit, every one of them. 

There is a pleasant chime as Bucky opens the door, and a woman with a sticker on her baseball cap gives him a wave. The sticker says “Kate.” 

“Hey, you’re back! No trouble I hope?” Kate sounds like there’s nothing she would like more than for there to be some trouble. Bucky can’t blame her. It must be painfully boring living in this tiny town. 

“No luck, sorry. I’m just here for some files.” 

“You’ll have to talk to Sam. He’s got the keys.” Kate turns her head to yell into the office despite its open floor plan, “Sam! Hey Sam! Captain America here to see you about files!” 

Bucky winces, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from wringing them out of habit. 

Sam materializes from a back room, a wide smile on his lips. A sense of dread washes over Bucky; a smile like that can only mean that Sam has something on him. 

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour. Heard you were out there antagonizing the locals.” Sam looks pleased as punch, and Kate flicks the wrapper from the straw in her iced coffee at him.

Word could not travel any faster than it does in this town. NSA communication was slower. 

“I wasn’t antagonizing anyone!” Bucky scowls, but Sam’s smile only widens. 

“C’mon, let’s see what we can do for the great Captain America.” 

Bucky groans but follows Sam toward the back, watching him pull a ring of keys off his belt and unlock one of the many doors. 

“What could you need old files for? Anything recent you can access remotely.” Sam swings the door open to reveal piles of neatly organized and labeled boxes full of evidence and records dating back likely as far as the founding of the town. Bucky was a little impressed by their organization.

“Classified.” Bucky grins when Sam swears under his breath, poking through the first few boxes before pulling down two of interest from earlier years. 

Sam sits down on the edge of one of the tables and watches Bucky pull down boxes for several long minutes. “Tommy was wrong. You know that. Tommy Weaving is a real bastard and everyone in town knows it.” 

Bucky freezes, yet another box halfway off a shelf. “What?” 

“Tommy Weaving - Steve called me and told me he was yelling at you on the street. Steve was all fumed up, ready to go and give him a piece of his mind. I told him to cool it, but… that’s not the first time it’s happened to you, is it?”

Bucky slams the box down onto the desk behind him hard enough to make Sam jump. “I’m not going to talk about this with you.” 

Leaning forward slowly and placing his forearms on his thighs, Sam regards him. “I had only been home for a few days when the news broke. After the Invasion, when they made you give that first press conference. I’ve never seen anyone look so haunted. After my time in the Gulf I thought I’d seen all the ghosts I could see, but there was another one on my TV screen. People had no right to treat you the way they did, the way they do.” 

The box in Bucky’s hands folds like a paper lunch sack, and he immediately jerks away from it as if it had burned him, cursing in rapid Russian as he turns away from Sam. “I said I don’t want to talk about this. I’m just here for the files.” Blinking rapidly for a few moments Bucky adds. “Please.” 

When Bucky turns around toward him again Sam is standing, looking at him with a soft but unreadable expression. 

“If I wanted a shrink I would be paying your salary.” Bucky does his best to un-pretzel the box, hoping that cracking a joke would break the tension.

Sam, thankfully, seems to drop it, pulling a new box out from under the table he’d been sitting on and folding it out for Bucky to transfer the files into, instead of having to watch Bucky’s rather futile attempts to revive the previous container. 

“We all like to talk around here.” Sam pulls a marker out of one of his many pockets and relabels the box, “It’s a blessing and a curse. Not trying to stir up old memories.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything more as he replaces the box on the shelf, just reaches out with his metal hand and gently squeezes Sam’s shoulder before turning back to his task. 

Sam brings up less contentious topics and lets Bucky poke through boxes unimpeded. It’s easy to talk to Sam, and Bucky finds himself actually relaxing as the day crawls on, answering Sam’s more innocuous questions about what he does with his life. 

“What’s your favorite new food?”

“Pancakes with real maple syrup.” 

“What was the worst thing about the ‘40’s?”

“Besides the political climate and polio? Starched collars.”

“My god you’re old.”

“Old enough to have lived a few lives. Sometimes it feels like I have.”

At some point Clint finds them and somehow makes sandwiches appear seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Do you have food hiding everywhere in this office? I swear if we get some sort of infestation I’ll end you.” Sam takes a big bite of his sandwich, offering the other half to Bucky. 

Clint ignores Sam’s jab, piling potato chips onto his own sandwich before shoving it into his mouth. “Next time I won’t bring you a sandwich.”   
Sam cringes as half the words dissolve into garbled vowels around bits of ham on rye. 

The friendly bickering between the three of them helps Bucky’s gloomy mood evaporate, and he has a pile of boxes to borrow and check through thoroughly by the time that Clint is finished arguing about the best type of ammo for close-combat situations. These guys aren’t so bad. Maybe Bucky has become kind of a loner. His only friend is Natasha after all. 

“Thanks guys, but I think I’m gonna take these few prized possessions and head home. Need me to sign any chain of custody forms?” 

Sam banishes Clint to eating at his desk like a civilized human before going to grab the necessary forms for Bucky to fill in. Bucky stacks the boxes carefully, and switches them to balance on his flesh arm when Sam holds out a pen. When Bucky looks up after providing the last signature Sam is making a sour face. 

“What?” 

“Didn’t know you were left handed. Show off.” 

Bucky breaks into a grin, shifting the boxes to more easily maneuver his way down the hall. 

“Thanks for your time today, everybody. I’ll get these files back to you tomorrow!” Bucky calls as he takes his armful back down the street to his room, making sure to carry them out the door with his non-metal arm just to make Wilson produce that sour face again. 

“An exciting night of paperwork,” Bucky tells the silent room when he arrives, setting the boxes on the dresser and plugging his phone in to charge. Music would probably help him focus. 

He surprises himself with how many files he gets through, despite the fact that he’s basically going on nothing. Scribbled notes pile up as he checks records of movement of stock and funds and anything else through the town for the few years before they went digital. These guys have double- and triple-checked that they wouldn’t be noticed, but Bucky knows how to do all of that; those years in the 90’s with Natasha weren’t wasted.  
Whatever is going on here hasn’t been around for long if all of this checks out, but when his eyes start to burn for lack of sleep Bucky reluctantly turns off the desk lamp and crawls into bed after updating Natasha on his scant intel. He can go and scope out the few locations he’s marked on his fold-out map of the area in the morning. There has to be some sort of clue about who these bad guys might be hoofing for. Sleep comes easily to him, blissfully devoid of dreams for once. 

Bucky wakes early, the birds chirping gently in the weak dawn light. He usually sleeps in, a pointed effort to piss off any and all Army wake-up callers still alive today, but today he gets himself up and out of bed, stuffing his hair into a baseball cap and his legs into a pair of joggers. There’s a small hole near the hem of his shirt, but it’s good enough to run in. 

There’s a pseudo nature park off the main road - what isn’t off the main road here? - and Bucky jogs down the somewhat maintained path, letting his mind wander as he falls into the familiar rhythm that running sets. It’s easy to weave through the trees and follow the trail markers. The forest is waking up as the sun creeps through the foliage, birds singing and animals scrabbling in the undergrowth. 

He sees a flash of honey-brown fur through the trees to his left and slows down, wondering if it might be a deer. It flashes closer and Bucky realizes it’s too short to be a deer. Before he can figure it out it’s disappeared into the undergrowth. Turning slowly, Bucky tries to follow the sound of it crashing through the forest around him, only to have an orange furry body slam into his legs, threatening to take him down. 

“Dodger!” 

Bucky jumps, and the dog, for it is a dog, leaps away from him, darting through the trees back up the hill. 

Bucky looks up and Steve is standing there, pointing an accusing finger at the dog by his feet, which is hanging its head and looking as defeated as possible. 

By the time that Bucky has collected himself, seeing Steve framed by early morning sun might be something that sticks with him - that shirt can’t be any bigger than a small, he realizes that Steve has clipped a leash onto the dog’s collar and come down the hill toward him. Shit. Bucky can’t just run off and pretend like he wasn’t standing there like a moron. 

“Hey Cap. Sorry about my dog, he can smell city boys from a mile away. You’re out early.” 

“Why the hell do you have a dog?” Is not what Bucky means to say but it’s what comes out. He’s only seen Steve in his bulky police uniform and bullet-proof vest, or from a distance in motorcycle leathers, and that stupidly small shirt leaves nothing to the imagination.

Steve looks taken aback, reaching down absently to ruffle Dodger’s ears, “You don’t like dogs?” 

“No. Way too clingy.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. Dodger seems to take this as an invitation and immediately leaps up from his calm position beside Steve to plant his dirty paws on Bucky’s chest, feather-duster tail wagging as he does his best to push Bucky over. 

An undignified noise leaves Bucky’s mouth as he pushes Dodger back down, glaring at the wiggling orange dog. 

“Dodger, bad dog.” Steve hisses, and Dodger’s ears droop, he plops onto his butt and seems immediately to lose interest in them both, sniffing at the air. 

Bucky scrabbles ineffectually at the mud on his shirt, his frown deepening when Steve laughs. 

“Yeah haha, laugh it up, country boy,” Bucky grumbles, taking his hat off long enough to smooth his hair back and replace it. “Why did you name your dog Dodger? The Dodgers are a bit old-time for you, huh?” 

“I’m from Brooklyn, actually.” Steve gives Dodger a warning look before unclipping his leash again. Dodger wags at Bucky before taking off into the undergrowth once more, “Found him abandoned, dodging cars and people on Vinegar Hill after I got home from my last deployment. Took him in to see if he had a chip or if anyone was looking for him and nothing; so he’s mine now.” Steve turns to whistle, “C’mon pal, we gotta go home!”

Bucky braces for impact this time as Dodger skitters through the leaves, only just managing not to slam into Bucky’s calves. 

Steve steps past him once he’s got Dodger back onto his leash, “Don’t get lost out here. I’d hate to have to send Clint and Lucky to find you. Bye, Cap.” 

Bucky stands rooted to the spot as Steve jogs down the path. He does not look at his ass. No sir.


	4. A Pair of Jerks - Steve

The third time Steve runs into Captain America in the woods he realizes that he’s afraid of Dodger. There’s no two ways about it. Steve had never thought he would have to watch a national icon shrink away from his relatively small dog as if he was going for the throat when Dodger sat on his haunches and wiggled all over to be petted. 

“Hey Cap, sorry we snuck up on you again.” Steve jogs the last few feet up to his dog and Bucky where the latter is trying obviously not to sidle away from Dodger, “You out running?” Cap’s hair is pushed back into a ball cap again, this time backwards on his head with a pair of headphones in. He could be any normal guy if not for the vibranium arm. 

“Just thinking through my notes on the files I borrowed.” Cap fends off Dodger’s attention expertly, though the tension in his shoulders betrays how uncomfortable he is. 

Steve takes pity on him and clips Dodger’s leash back on, patting the dog’s head when he immediately sits on Steve’s foot. “Anything I can do to help the great Captain America?” Steve has a hard time keeping a straight face when his companion looks like he’s sucked on a lemon.

Bucky’s nose wrinkles as if Steve has offered him a piece of roadkill. “Bucky. Call me Bucky.” 

“What are you, twelve? You really want me to call you Bucky?” 

“It’s my name! Only my ma and Natasha called me James. You know how many James’s there were on my block alone?” 

“Alright, Buck-o it is then. My offer still stands if you’re not too busy counting ration coupons.” 

“That’s not funny at all.” Bucky gives a small smile anyway, sobering immediately when he realizes that Steve can see. “You want to help? I need an insider on the area to show me around to where bad guys might be able to set up camp.” 

“I can do that.” Steve is surprised by Bucky’s request, and while he isn’t the most qualified person in the area, he can surely help. “We can take my Jeep out this afternoon and I’ll show you the sights. You ever seen a black bear?” There is a voice in the back of Steve’s head that sounds suspiciously like Sam warning him not to get attached. Bucky is just here for a job. But Steve is just having fun right? Just palling around. That was totally different than taking a genuine interest in the guy. Even if he had lived an extremely interesting life. Even if Steve maybe has had the fleeting thought of pushing his thumb into the dip in Bucky’s chin.

Steve keeps Bucky equal parts enraptured and disgusted with his animal stories as they walk back to the main road where Steve is parked. No, Bucky has not seen a black bear, nor any kind of bear - his experiences with wildlife include pigeons and rats the size of small dogs, but real wildlife seems to be somewhat beyond him. 

After some time spent showering and changing into more hike-worthy clothes, rolling the sleeves up on his Henley as the sun threatens to turn the inside of his Jeep into an oven, Steve drives down to the motel to find Bucky waiting out front - dressed again in his heavy military boots and pants that are one step away from leggings. He plans to hike in that? 

Keeping his comments to himself when Bucky climbs into the passenger seat, Steve is a little surprised when Bucky twists to shove a duffle bag and his shield into the back seat. Steve can see the curve of the shield in his rear view mirror, and Bucky raises an eyebrow at him when he catches him looking. 

“Problem?” Bucky asks, leather jacket squeaking as he buckles himself in.

“No, of course not.” Steve peels out from the lot, pulling a tight u-turn to head up the street out of town. 

They’re hardly into the trees before Bucky wiggles out of his jacket and tosses it into the back seat next to his shield. He’s wearing a rather horrible shirt patterned with daisies, but he at least has on a chest holster. Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as Bucky unfolds a map of the area with a few notes scribbled on it. 

“Where do we go first?” Steve asks, leaning over into Bucky’s space and ignoring the annoyed noise it earns him. 

“Would you keep your eyes on the road? We need to check all these places to see if there are any more installations.” 

“How did you pick these?” Steve takes one hand off the wheel to trace the thin line of a road up the curve of the mountain.

“Just drive. I’ll tell you when you turn.” 

“You got it.” 

Steve does as he’s told and focuses on driving, bumping down logging roads and toward Bucky’s first marker. When they take a turn he realizes that he’s up by the quarry. 

“You want to see something cool?” Steve is already turning to take them that way, ignoring Bucky’s protests, “You’ll like it. The quarry is beautiful. It’s where all the local rabble hangs out. You’ll know something about that, right?” He takes a moment to turn and grin at Bucky who just looks like he’s contemplating new and interesting ways to kill Steve. 

The trees are thick up here, having been abandoned by the loggers to regrow as they harvested further up into the hills. A dense layer of pine needles covers the ground and quiets the tires on Steve’s Jeep as he pulls them around. The steep drop-off of the quarry lip gives way to a sweeping view of the valley below, trees lining the edge of the man-made lake and the sun glinting off the cool clear water. Steve can’t help but throw his arm out to bring it all to Bucky’s attention as he hops out of the Jeep.

“So this is where country kids come to make out?” Bucky slides to the ground and paces over to the drop-off, peers over the lip of the quarry bank with some disdain, “It’s prettier than under the docks at Coney Island. I’ll give you that.” 

Throwing his head back Steve laughs, imagining Bucky skinnier and with two flesh arms crawling under a dock and trying to act suave while also avoiding digging a razor sharp barnacle into some sensitive spot. 

“Hey, don’t laugh, you punk.” Bucky shoves at him and Steve doesn’t think before he shoves him back. 

Bucky stumbles back comically, clutching his chest. But then his eyes widen and his arms shoot out, pinwheeling for a long moment before Steve realizes how close he’s gotten to the edge of the bank. 

Steve grabs at him, his fingers just brushing the edge of Bucky’s t-shirt as Bucky falls backwards into the sheer drop into the quarry lake. It’s not so far if you’re prepared for it, but it’s high enough that Bucky could be seriously hurt if he hits the water wrong.   
Steve immediately rips at the Velcro on his vest and shrugs it off, leaping off and twisting into a perfect dive at the water below them, cutting into it the way he was taught as a kid. It only takes him a moment to resurface and he looks around wildly for Bucky, heart hammering when he doesn’t see him immediately. He gasps out in surprise when icy metal latches around his ankle and drags him down, cursing and splashing to stay above water as Bucky finally pops out from underneath it. 

“You son-of-a-bitch, I thought you’d drowned!” Steve kicks at him, dislodging the metal hand that still held his calf. 

Bucky just laughs, water running in rivulets down his neck. “You look like a drowned rat. You pushed me anyway!” 

Steve splashes him with water, kicking to stay afloat. “I’ll let you drown next time.” 

“You make me all warm and fuzzy when you talk like that, Stevie.” Bucky’s smile curls his mouth and he winks at Steve. Steve gives him another faceful of cold water.   
By the time they’ve climbed out of the lake Steve is regretting diving in wearing all his clothes, his undershirt clings to his wet skin uncomfortably, and his tac pants are threatening to slide off with every step as the weight of the water tugs them down. His boots squish when he straightens and he wrinkles his nose at the uncomfortable feeling. 

Bucky skitters his way up the slope to retrieve Steve’s vest, a wide grin on his lips when he comes back. No one has any right to look so happy while soaked to the bone. Steve’s glower only prompts Bucky to shove at him, and Steve cracks, snorting out a laugh at the ridiculous situation. 

“C’mon, you jerk. I’ve got another set of clothes in the Jeep.” 

The back-up clothes that Steve has in his Jeep are purely for emergencies, and Bucky looks a little ridiculous in the big flannel overshirt, hair having fallen out of its gel and now flopping over his forehead. He looks younger, smaller, far less intimidating. They drape their wet clothes over the hood of the Jeep, trusting the sun to dry them out well enough. 

Only when Steve watches Bucky strap on not two, but seven different knives does the discrepancy between the soft man in front of him and the infamous super-spy-turned-back-to-public-icon give Steve pause. 

“Hey, one of those is mine!” Steve notices the flash of blued steel and a familiar leather-wrapped grip, hand immediately shooting to the small of his back where that knife usually lives. 

Bucky’s cheeky grin immediately returns and he flips the knife expertly before tucking it into a thigh holster, pushing his hair back from his face.   
“We’ve got bad guys to sniff out. C’mon Captain Rogers. I read your files. You know your way around punching bad guys, and I need some backup. We’ve got plenty of hiking to do.” 

“I could just leave you here in the forest.” Steve suggests, already knowing that he’s far too invested to do that. There was something about Bucky that drew him in, like a magnet set under his sternum. A memory at the back of his mind. 

“You could. I could slash your tires and leave us both out here. Who do you think would make it out?” Bucky is grinning as he says it, but Steve still frowns at him. 

“This is coercion.” 

“Don’t need to coerce you into helping me, do I? You’ve been helpful so far, why change that?” Bucky is already walking away from him, pulling his map out of the passenger seat. “C’mon, this way.” 

By the time that they get back to town Steve is tired, physically and mentally, thighs aching from climbing up the sides of hills and a wicked scratch on his cheek burning from the place a branch had snapped him across the face. 

“I just don’t understand.” Steve doesn’t watch Bucky trail after him into the house, but he can see him over his shoulder in the reflection of the bathroom mirror as he examines the cut on his cheek and washes dirt out from under his fingernails, “how the Widow hasn’t killed you yet.” 

Bucky grins and Steve flicks water at him, frowning; it only makes Bucky’s grin wider. 

“You dragged me up and down that mountain all day and we didn’t learn a damn thing,” Steve hisses, folding the towel more carefully than necessary as it gives him an opportunity not to look at Bucky’s stupid face. 

“You really don’t think I learned anything?” 

Steve pauses at Bucky’s tone, meeting his gaze briefly. His hair is sticking up all over, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, Steve’s too-big plaid shirt is sporting a new hole in one of the arms, and Steve can see the dull glint of metal through it. 

“Alright, what did you learn?” Steve brushes past him, or he plans to, Bucky doesn’t move for him, and it’s like edging past a brick wall, and he’s forced to skirt inelegantly around Bucky’s shoulders. 

“I learned that you’re not involved, and you genuinely don’t know who is.” 

Steve turns sharply to gape at him. “That was even a question?” 

Bucky falls into some semblance of parade rest, hands on his belt. “Yes. It’s always a question. But now I know that you’re not involved, I can start narrowing down the list. They’re moving money and provisions through your town, but it’s not a large cell. It’s only coincidence that you’re involved at all.” 

Coincidence? It strikes Steve as an odd choice of words, and he finds himself unconsciously mirroring Bucky’s pose. 

“So what are we going to do?” 

“I’m going to strike at their base. I figured out where it is.” Bucky says it casually, as if they hadn’t spent all damn day climbing around in the hills when they could have been _doing something_

“I’m coming with you.”

“You sure as shit are not,” Bucky scoffs and Steve momentarily sees red, hands coming off his belt to reach for Bucky. Bucky doesn’t seem perturbed in the least, “I can’t bring a civilian into an operation, even if you did used to be Special Ops.”

“I’m coming,” Steve snarls, “Go get your suit out of my car. I know you brought it.” Bucky opens his mouth to argue but Steve takes a step toward him, the annoyance he’s been feeling all day flares into proper anger and his hands curl into fists at his side. “Suit up. If you think I’ll let you go without me then-” 

Bucky’s eyes search his face for a long, tense, moment and then he steps past Steve.A few seconds later Steve hears the door to his Jeep slam and Bucky returns, duffle bag in hand. 

“If you get shot, you can’t blame me. They could have gas, or stun weapons.” 

Steve nods sharply and goes to his own room to dig out his gear. The grey-green tactical pants are nothing special, but the holster he straps onto his thigh and the calf-high military boots are a little more than standard issue. He snaps on a belt, the buckle sitting comfortably against his belly once he moves the pouches threaded onto the belt into the proper places, checking and re-checking their contents until he’s happy. The top is a little harder to get into, and he has to suck in a breath to get the long zipper up the side and over his chest, the built-in body armor enough to keep him from dying, but nothing special. If the bad guys have any high-caliber weapons then he would have to rely on Bucky’s shield. He rolls up the sleeves as an afterthought, tightening the wrist-straps on his fingerless gloves, wanting the padding over his knuckles and in his palms but unwilling to compromise movement. The shemagh felt soft and familiar in his hands, folded carefully in the bottom of his bag. It was probably not necessary, since they wouldn't be fighting in the sand the way he had before, but he wrapped it carefully around his neck anyway, an old familiar part of himself settling in for a fight as he looked himself over in the mirror. 

“If those straps went the other way you could almost be me.” 

Steve startles, turning to see Bucky leaning on the doorframe. 

“Is the pattern supposed to point like an arrow down to your dick?” Bucky licks his lips, eyeing Steve up and down.

Steve can’t even rise to Bucky’s jab, eyes roving over him decked-out from head to toe in navy blue. The bright silver of the star on his chest, and the stylized wings that branch from it seem to glow in the near-darkness of the room, along with the gleam of Bucky’s metal arm on full display. The shield harness across his shoulders makes him seem impossibly broad, and Steve can see the curve of said shield over his back. Steve’s never seen Bucky decked out in his Cap outfit. He exudes control and power, and Steve feels a little lost in it for a moment, struck dumb by the fact that this is actually Captain America standing in front of him. 

“You look a little awe-struck, you o-” Bucky’s eyes widen when Steve crosses the floor in long strides and grabs him, fingers tight on the harness framing his chest. 

“Just shut up.” Steve growls, giving Bucky a yank until they’re kissing, one hand immediately sliding up to the back of his neck to move Bucky’s head where he wants it, harsh and demanding. 

Steve pulls away for a second to gasp for breath and Bucky slams him against the wall, moving them both like Steve weighs nothing, and Steve barely has a moment to focus on the flash of his pale eyes before they’re kissing again, just as frenzied as before. 

Bucky doesn’t let up on him, pressing Steve so hard into the wall that he’s slightly concerned about the wood paneling, or maybe his lungs. But he just clings back, tangling his fingers into Bucky’s amazingly thick hair and yanking his head back to bite at the cut of his jaw. The bitten-off noise Bucky makes goes a long way to convincing Steve that he likes it.

Steve isn’t done arguing, when is he ever, but the fact that his toes are no longer touching the floor and Bucky digging his metal fingers into his hip is not doing any favors to his higher brain function. An undignified noise leaves his throat as Bucky shifts to slide one of his thighs between Steve’s legs, pulling him back into a biting kiss as he grinds their hips together. 

The canvas-like material of Steve’s tac pants is rough but the action just makes him groan deep in his chest. Bucky has him completely suspended, almost his whole weight resting on Bucky’s thigh, and Steve can’t remember ever being harder in his life. He can feel his dick leaking into his pants.

“Fuck, Steve-” Bucky hisses as Steve sinks his teeth into his neck over the high collar of his uniform, hips jerking against Steve’s own. Too many layers, far too many clothes between Bucky’s flushed skin and Steve’s fingers. 

Steve urges Bucky back enough to slip both hands between them, groaning in pleasure when Bucky’s hands slide up his sides and into his hair, pulling him back into a kiss, metal hand now warm from the heat between them. A curse bites its way out from Steve’s lips when Bucky shifts him again, settling his weight back slightly so that Steve is now straddling both of his thighs, pinned like a bug against the wall. The casual example of Bucky’s strength lights Steve up inside, and he uses his now-increased mobility to yank at the fly on Bucky’s pants, fingers eagerly diving in to pull out his cock. 

“God, you’re pretty, I wanted to eat you up the first time I saw you,” Steve huffs out, grinning sharply when Bucky’s hands fall to his shoulders and he can feel his thighs shake beneath him. “You’re such a bastard, wanted to take you over my knee and bite at your pert little ass, or stick my cock in your mouth to shut you up.” 

Bucky gasps out a wet, desperate noise, hips jerking up sharply as Steve takes ahold of him; Steve grinning and thumbing over the leaking head and not giving a damn if he gets come on his gloves. 

Bucky looks down between them, forehead pressed against Steve’s shoulder, mouth open and panting as he watches Steve jerk him off in quick firm strokes. 

Steve’s stomach swoops when Bucky’s metal hand leaves his shoulder, and Steve has to lean his head back against the wall when those fingers find his zipper. He can’t - can’t look right now, he’s wound too tight. 

“Stevie...” Bucky whispers, and Steve drops his gaze back down, whimpering as Bucky’s deft fingers pull down his zipper and gingerly pull his cock out, their gazes meeting as Bucky slaps Steve’s hand with his own dick, metal fingers teasing at the spot where the foreskin has pulled back from the head. Steve hisses, eyes fluttering. 

“God...” Steve chases Bucky’s lips as he gets both of them in his hand, feeling Bucky’s thighs quiver again as he jerks them both - those damn metal fingers taking a handful of his ass and pushing him even more forcefully against the wall. 

There’s no way Steve is going to last long like this, and from the way that Bucky’s cock leaks precome steadily between them, he has to be close too, hips making aborted thrusts into the tight ring of Steve’s fingers. 

“C’mon Buck, fuck- I’m-” Steve has a lot of things he wants to say in that moment, but all he can do is meet Bucky’s simmering gaze, panting desperate breaths between them, his own hips twitching. 

Steve’s orgasm rushes up, and he chokes on his breath for a long moment, unable to keep his eyes open as lightning shoots up and down his spine.

Bucky braces his flesh hand against Steve’s shoulder to keep him in place, hips snapping up into Steve’s grip as he chases his own pleasure. Steve just manages to open his eyes in time for Bucky to bury his face against Steve’s neck as his cock pulses in Steve’s hand. 

Bucky’s breath puffs out against Steve’s throat, small and pleased noises, and Steve can feel Bucky’s heartbeat slowing from the hand curled loosely around the back of his neck. “Okay..but we really gotta go.” There’s a grin in Bucky’s words that Steve can’t see but he can certainly hear. 

“Maybe I should wash my hands, get us a washcloth.” Steve can’t help but smile, and he swears he feels Bucky press that smile into his throat in return.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up.” 

They’ve both composed themselves by the time they climb into Steve’s Jeep, Bucky moving his shield into his lap. Steve can’t help but sneak the occasional glance at him as they drive back up into the hills. 

Bucky does in fact seem to know exactly where they’re going, instructing Steve where to turn as they make their way higher and higher into the mountains up the logging roads. These guys must be pretty motivated to be moving things like weapons up and down these disastrous roadways, but Steve doesn’t say any of that, just focuses on keeping them on the road as his Jeep crawls over rocks and through puddles. 

They’ve got the windows down, Bucky apparently listening over the crashing of their vehicle through the undergrowth. Steve has no idea what it is he’s listening for, but he obediently follows Bucky’s directions. They crest the mountain and turn to follow the back of it, like crawling along the spine of a sleeping beast. When Bucky holds his hand up Steve rolls to a stop, muscles tense as Bucky pushes the door open and slides out onto the ground, landing silently on the balls of his feet in the thick pine needle ground cover. 

Steve joins him a moment later, nodding silently when Bucky holds a finger to his lips and points with two fingers along the ridge. 

Steve lets Bucky take point, shield out in front of them as they creep over the rise and start down the other side. Steve can’t see a single thing in the darkness of the forest, but he follows Bucky’s sure steps and doesn’t slide on the rocks, pistol held loosely in his hands. 

Bucky freezes and then launches the shield into the trees, Steve follows its path and is surprised to see a man drop out of a branch above them, screeching as he does. 

Suddenly the air around them explodes into movement, flashlight beams cutting through the darkness and blinding Steve even further. Without thinking, he dives behind a tree, only to watch a bullet carve a valley through the bark where he had just been standing. 

Okay, this is pretty bad. 

There is a complex up at the top of the hill. Steve can see plaster over brick surrounded by chain link and barbed wire, and he dodges through the trees toward it, desperately trying to keep Bucky in his line of sight. He snaps off two rounds and watches two of the men in front of him drop in quick succession, only to hear the metallic whirr of Bucky’s shield as it sinks into the tree he had just vacated.

“Try not to hit me!” Steve shouts, twisting around to yank the shield out of the tree, realizing that Bucky had beat him to the complex, back against the brick and a gun in his hands. 

Steve had never been the best shot. He’d been a good tactician. He’d learned all the different styles of hand-to-hand combat he could. He knew how to disarm an attacker and how to use a knife. He wasn’t bad with firearms, but watching Bucky slide out from the shadow of the building and take down three guys in a single twisting movement? Probably the closest to a religious experience Steve had had since he was a boy and his Ma had taken him to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan for Christmas Mass. 

“You want this back?” Steve is panting by the time he gets up the hill, adrenaline singing through his veins. 

Bucky takes the shield from him and immediately throws his arm around Steve’s shoulders, turning into him so that the shield covers them both from another hail of bullets. 

“Fun, huh?” Steve is grinning like a loon, and Bucky just smiles back, shaking his head and sighing, nabbing one of Steve’s knives from his thigh holster and expertly throwing it over the rim of his shield.

Steve honestly doesn't know who it is that they’re fighting. There are no large and obvious insignia on their clothes, but he figures that’s more for henchmen in the movies. These guys are, however, expertly trained, and Steve is relishing the chance to get to stretch himself out like this again. Even back when he’d been small and scrawny in Brooklyn, choked by equal parts exhaust fumes and his own asthma, there was something straightforward, good, simple, about finding someone who’d deserved to be punched and giving it to them right in the face. 

Wait. Asthma? He’s never had asthma. Steve freezes, blinking for a long second. He can vividly remember how it felt to have an asthma attack, the fear of not being able to suck in a proper breath. There had been a smell of industry all around him, damn tiny vents they pretended were windows yet did nothing to bring in any actual fresh air- 

“Steve! Move!” 

Steve is snapped out of his reverie as Bucky dives forward, flinging his shield ahead of him to take out the closest guy, tucking and rolling and coming back up in time to grab Steve by the straps on the back of his tac vest and throw him out of the way. 

Steve watches in horror as Bucky brings his shield back up too slow, twisting and grabbing one of the guns strapped to his thigh and aiming at the guy who had been shooting at Steve. The pop-pop of gunshots ring out and Steve watches the guy drop, but so does Bucky. 

“Bucky!” Steve scrambles up, past the ringing in his ears, and the ache in his lungs from where hitting the ground had forced the air out of his chest. Bucky had taken a bullet, he needed- 

Bucky groans, turning over and slamming his metal arm into the ground hard enough to sink his fist several inches into the dirt. However, when he tries to pull himself up he hisses in shocked pain. Steve can see a darkening patch of blood spreading through his suit even in the moonlight, and he quickly crawls the last few feet to Bucky’s side. 

“Hey hey, don’t try to get up.” Steve grabs at Bucky’s shoulders, immeasurably glad that the shooting has stopped. Why hadn’t they brought more backup? 

Bucky is clutching at his side, just below his ribs, where a dark red stain is still spreading. Shit, they had to get out of here. 

“I have to move you Bucky, we can’t stay here.” Steve grabs at Bucky, slinging his flesh arm over his shoulders and heaving him up. Bucky cries out but manages to stand, albeit leaning heavily against Steve. 

By the time that Steve has half-carried, half-dragged Bucky back to his Jeep and gotten him strapped into the passenger seat, Bucky is barely conscious. Steve can’t tell if it’s from blood loss or pain or both, but there isn’t a damn thing he can do out here in the woods. 

Steve means to drive to the hospital, but by the time that he’s out of the woods and on the main road Bucky has managed to regain enough consciousness to curse at him and grate out. “No hospitals,” before passing out again. The only hospital that’s equipped to take on someone of Bucky’s caliber is in the next town, almost 40 minutes away.   
After a few tense moments where Steve has to dig through Bucky’s pockets and his rather ridiculous utility belt to find his cell phone and scroll through to find Natasha’s name. She doesn’t answer when he calls, but he leaves a voicemail, hoping it’s coherent with the way his voice was shaking. She could be anywhere. He has to get Bucky patched up assuming she can’t make it, so he has to take him home instead.

His tires screech as he slides into his driveway, jumping out and not even bothering to close the door before yanking the passenger side open and grabbing Bucky before he can slide out onto the dirt. He’s boneless, but somehow still somewhat conscious, if the soft noise that he makes when Steve heaves him into his arms is anything to go by. 

Steve is a strong guy but Bucky is ridiculously heavy for his size, and off-kilter with the added weight of his metal arm. The struggle that Steve has to go through to get the door open is not pretty, neither is the way that he hisses at Dodger to get out of the way. He manages to wrestle Bucky onto the wide kitchen island, not sure what else to do with him, and digs in the closet for the first aid kit.

He’s got his sleeves pushed up and most of Bucky’s ridiculous suit off when Dodger starts barking and Natasha slides around the corner, eyes wild. Wow, Steve hadn’t actually expected her to show up this quickly. She must have been in the area.

“Hold this.” Steve holds out a roll of gauze, pins clenched in his teeth as he cuts away the remaining layers of Bucky’s suit, the ones that are now tacky with blood.   
Between the two of them they get Bucky wrestled onto his side and Steve holds his breath as Natasha digs around next to Bucky’s spine for the bullet, feeling more than a little sick as he watches the wound trying to close only for Natasha to have to tear it back open to get the pieces of lead out. 

Only once Natasha is satisfied that she has all the bullet pieces does she let Steve wrap Bucky’s ribs carefully in gauze. Steve is painfully grateful that Bucky had passed out as soon as Steve put him on the counter. He couldn’t have done that if he’d had to listen to Bucky scream. 

Natasha ushers Steve over to the kitchen sink as she checks his patch job and examines the pieces of bullet. Steve feels woozy and drained, and his hands are shaking so badly that he can barely put soap onto his hands. His arms are covered in blood too, and he scrubs violently all the way up to his elbows until his skin is tingling and raw and the water has stopped running red. 

Natasha touches his arm and Steve jumps, hands clenching like he’s ready to throw a punch until he sees that it’s her. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Steve’s voice sounds raw and tired even to his own ears. 

Natasha nods, her eyes searching his face, “Believe it or not he’s had worse. We’re lucky it didn’t hit his spine, and that I was in the area.” 

Steve nods mutely, moving to shove his still-shaking hands into his pockets only to see that his white undershirt is also stained with blood. 

“Will you move him onto the couch for me?” Natasha is speaking slowly and softly, like she’s afraid he’ll lose it, and Steve would be angry with her for treating him like some kind of weakling. But he just does as she asks, gathering Bucky back into his arms and tucking his face into the crook of his neck, careful not to jostle his back as he sets him down on the couch in the living room. 

By the time that he’s got Bucky situated and tucked in with a few blankets Steve is practically swaying on his feet and aching all over from the fight. He paces back into the kitchen only to see it spotless, looking exactly the same as it had that morning. Natasha was leaning casually against the kitchen sink, as if she wasn’t some sort of wizard to get all the blood cleaned up and the med kit put away in a matter of moments. 

“You should get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on him and file a report. Don’t even think about arguing, I can see you’re practically asleep already.”   
“What were you doing? You got here so fast.” Steve’s voice is quiet and Natasha is gazing at him, expression unreadable. 

“I was actually coming to pick Bucky up. His checks of the town files led me to an actual solid lead. It looks like it could be nasty.” 

“Can I do anything?” Steve knows the answer before he asks, but he has to ask. She shakes her head and he sighs. “Do you at least know who it is now?” he adds. 

“Looks like an old enemy might not be as dead as we thought. I can’t tell you much. Go to bed, Steve.” 

Steve puts his hands up, only taking long enough to pull his blood-stained shirt off and drop it into the trash. No point in trying to save it. “Let me know if anything changes.” 

“Good night.”


	5. Truth Will Out - Bucky

Bucky wakes up a few times, slipping in and out of awareness as his body tries to recoup the loss of blood. At one point he sees Natasha bending over him and he wants to reach for her but his arms won’t move. 

The light has changed by the time that Bucky finally manages to open his eyes properly, the soft pale light of morning. He must have slept for an entire day then...at least. He experimentally wiggles his fingers and toes just to make sure that they work and lets out a sigh of relief when after a quick mental check everything seems to be in order. He manages to pull himself into a half-sitting position leaning against the arm of the couch, and he realizes it’s only so difficult because Dodger is lying on top of him, head pillowed on Bucky’s belly. He opens one eye when Bucky disturbs him, his tail waving lazily. 

“Hey...you seen Steve?” Bucky manages to croak out. Turning his head no longer makes the room spin sickeningly, and he turns just in time to peek over the back of the couch and catch Steve on his way into the living room, carrying a cup of coffee. 

Steve is wearing a soft cream-colored sweater, hair swept back from his forehead but still sticking up from where he must have toweled it dry. Bucky can feel himself staring, and in what world is he allowed to look this good just lounging around his house? The dizziness has returned and Bucky knows it has nothing to do with blood loss. There is still a heavy dog on his belly and pinning his legs, and he absently reaches out to pet Dodger in an effort to distract himself from staring open-mouthed at the soft Adonis in front of him. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” Steve looks so relieved, so soft and open, that Bucky actually has to blink at him a few times to make sense of the expression.   
“Yeah.” Bucky’s throat is still dry as a bone and he croaks out a thanks when Steve quickly hands him the coffee he’s holding. After a few sips Bucky clears his throat and tries again, “How long was I out?” 

“A day and a half. You woke up a few times but you weren’t very lucid. You lost a lot of blood.” Steve wrings his hands together as he sits on the coffee table across from Bucky, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. 

Bucky scratches at Dodger’s ears and the dog gives him a happy smile, leaning into the attention. “Figured I’d wake up in a hospital. The bedside manner is a lot better though.” 

“I wanted to send you but Natasha said we shouldn’t move you. The bullet uh...popped out a couple hours ago.” Steve was grimacing and Bucky wanted to take his hand to make him stop fidgeting. Watching him wring his hands was too much. 

“Yeah, that can be pretty gross. Sorry about that.” Bucky twists to try and sit up further but his back protests and he just settles back down, sucking air through his teeth. “Guess I’m not quite ready to get up yet. Where’s Tasha?” 

“She’s in town, said she wanted to double-check your notes before she could make an official report to Shield. She uh- took off to check out that base before I could stop her. I can only assume the state she left it in. That bullet clipped your spine Buck, you might want to take it easy.” Steve’s expression has gone all serious again.

“Nah, I think I’ll go for a run.” Bucky grinned up at Steve just to watch his eyebrows draw together. 

“I should thank you.” Steve is looking far too serious; no one dressed so softly should be wearing such a world-weary expression, “For-” 

“Make me some more coffee and maybe some toast and we’ll call it even.” Dodger finally takes the hint and hops down off his legs and Bucky sighs happily as he stretches. “Wait- did you change my clothes?” The joggers and Army t-shirt were definitely not Shield-issue. 

“Your suit was covered in blood and pushing on your wound, I couldn’t leave you in it.” Steve’s ears were red. 

“Now you know my dirty secret on how I look so good in those tight pants.” Bucky winked and Steve snorted out a laugh, pulling himself up off the coffee table. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your Cap-themed jockstrap.” Steve throws his head back and laughs as Bucky lobs one of the couch pillows at him. 

“It is not Cap-themed!” 

After several more hours on the couch and some real breakfast that’s only slightly burnt (which he takes great joy in teasing Steve about), Bucky feels well enough to get off the couch and stumble into the bathroom. 

He doesn’t look his best, there’s no denying it. Getting shot takes a lot out of you, whether you’re a normal guy or not quite so normal. Bucky leans on his metal hand, careful not to crack the sink as he twists to examine the careful gause-work against his back. Steve’s done a good job, and he almost feels guilty picking at the body tape and peeling it up. He’d gotten a text from Natasha while he’d been asleep telling him to stay put, and that she would be coming back to pick him up after she had a plan of attack. That should give him a few hours of rest before he has to be out again.

Dodger noses the door open and immediately moves to sit on Bucky’s foot, looking up at him with his big brown eyes. Bucky can’t help but smile down at him. He can’t remember now why he was so against his slobbery attention in the first place. 

“Good boy, Dodger.” Bucky murmurs as he finally peels off the gauze. There is a raised red scar, still looking angry and inflamed, but no longer an open wound. It’s good enough for him to go without the dressing, so he carefully folds it up and stuffs it into the garbage, making sure that Dodger doesn’t dig for it before wandering back toward the kitchen. 

Steve looks surprised to see him up and about and Bucky obediently lifts up his shirt to show Steve the mark. Steve’s mouth goes to a tight line but he doesn’t say anything more, though Bucky can see that his fingers are white around the cup in his hand. 

“You shouldn’t drink so much coffee.” Bucky runs his hands through his hair in an effort to make it lie back down, though he’s fairly sure that it only looks worse if Steve’s sudden and extreme interest in rinsing out Dodger’s bowl is any indication. 

Bucky leans forward against the kitchen island, forearms on the smooth formica. “So I figured you were Army before, but what unit did you serve with? Figure you probably learned about me in your high school history classes.” 

Steve looks uncomfortable, and Bucky wants to corner him and force the answer out, but he tries to remember the ounce of subtly that Natasha has tried to knock into his skull. 

“Yeah, I served. Three tours. That’s where I met Sam. Clint too, though he only served one tour before he got his ears blown out.” 

Bucky winces, suddenly realizing why Natasha had started using hand signs around him again. That devil had been practicing. He’s going to have to tease her about that. 

But Steve isn’t done, and despite the fact that he won’t look at Bucky, his shoulders are set like he’s preparing for an onslaught. 

“When I got home...I didn’t know what to do so I followed Clint’s advice and moved up here. Living in New York was just...too much after my time over there. I’ve got Dodger, and I’ve got a damn good police team.” 

“I looked into you.” Bucky looks up at Steve’s face, where he’s still turned away, “As soon as I got home I looked into you. There were sealed files even my clearance couldn’t get in to.” 

“Nothing you need to know about. It’s not even that bad really, turned out as a pretty standard op. But this isn’t about me… back there you-” 

Bucky stands, pacing around the island. “You got back after the Chitauri invaded New York, right?” 

Steve blinks at him, finally meeting his gaze. “Yeah. The next year. They’d done a lot of clean-up by then.” 

“Did you see the news coverage?” _Did you see me?_

“Not much of it. Just the big stuff. I saw you on TV but I didn’t hear your press release.” Steve’s eyes are wide and he’s leaned back against the counter, searching Bucky’s expression. 

“That press release was one of the worst days of my life. I saw genuine hatred in the people around me. The last thing they wanted from me was to be Captain America.” 

Steve’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out, so Bucky continues. 

“There’s a formal dossier on me somewhere in the Shield archive, of what really happened to me. I feel like you should know.” _Know who you saved. Know why I saved you._

Steve swallows thickly and nods. “I’ll make us some coffee?” 

Bucky smiles. “Decaf for you.” 

By the time they’ve sat down on the comfortable couch, the soft blanket draped over Bucky’s legs, Bucky is regretting his decision to be so honest. What if Steve doesn’t like him anymore? 

“Okay, go ahead Buck.” Steve nudges him with his shoulder and takes a drink of his coffee, giving Bucky a small, fond, smile. 

Bucky stares down at the coffee in his hands, swirls the cup gently to watch it move, and starts to talk. 

“A lot of the public knowledge stuff is right. I signed up for the war and got captured. God, I was scared shitless my entire time in Europe. The only thing I could do to save my sorry ass was shoot someone from far away. Didn’t help me once they got me. They gave me the serum. It almost killed me. Felt like they’d injected me with fire, it burned all my cells up.” 

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s scratching at the inside of his elbow until Steve lays his hand over top of his digging fingers. 

Bucky swallows and starts again. 

“They really didn’t know what the serum was going to do, stupid squid bastards just wanted test subjects. I managed to pull myself out of there and through some combination of sheer dumb luck and a lot of adrenaline I got the prisoners out, and we walked our happy asses back to camp. They made me Captain America. But...the ghosts were still there. Those squids dug into me, and those ghosts caught up to me… They were trying to pull me out even as the serum was working its way through me. Sometimes I felt...detached from who I was. Now? We might as well be strangers. It was easier to be Captain America than Bucky Barnes. Shield was pretty embarrassed that they couldn’t get the serum to work, but Erskine seemed happy with me. 

I lost my arm with the Valkyrie. Snapped it off like a twig when I hit the water. Glad it knocked me out before I could realize that. They found me in the ‘70’s, Shield, I mean. That’s what people were so angry about. Why hadn’t I been helping before 2011 if I’d just...been around the whole time?”   
“You were helping.” Steve interjects, but Bucky just covers his hand with the metal one. 

“They were lied to. The government told them that they’d found me earlier that year. I told them the truth. That I’d been an assassin, that I’d hurt people for the greater good - dragged their golden icon through the mud to do it. They didn’t want me standing in front of them telling them about the fact that I was sorry for everything that I had and hadn’t done. They wanted someone to blame.” 

“Buck-” 

“C’mon Stevie I’m almost done.” Bucky can feel his throat threatening to close. He hadn’t even talked about this to Natasha. Despite the fact that they’d been partners for damn near ten years. Their ghosts moved in the same circles. 

“I can’t tell sometimes. Who I am. I don’t actually know. There’s a lot of memories swirling around in here.” He reaches up with their combined hands to touch his own temple, “And I can’t even tell which ones are real.” 

Steve stares at him, and Bucky knows he must sound crazy but he doesn’t want to lie. Turning his gaze back to his lap Bucky is surprised to find Dodger has shoved his nose between his body and his elbow, big brown eyes gazing up at Bucky balefully. 

“Why don’t we watch some TV or something, I can’t stand talking about myself.” Bucky is deflecting, he knows he is, and he can tell by the layer of dust on Steve’s TV that it doesn’t get watched very often, “Turn on the radio, huh?” 

Steve does neither of these things, sliding off the couch and over to a cabinet in the entertainment center that houses the rarely-used TV. The thing he pulls out of it Bucky recognizes, though it makes the world spin sickeningly around him to watch Steve set it up. 

He winces like he’s been slapped when the first low strains of trumpet warble their way out of the record player, the soft crackle of static as the needle works its way into the dips and grooves. Bucky wants to scream, wants to grab Steve and make him stop this. It makes him hurt, and he’s blinking away tears without realizing. Dodger whines at his obvious distress. 

Steve doesn’t turn the player up, leaves it quiet enough that the song lingers on the edge of Bucky’s hearing. He pets Dodger’s ears and the dog happily leaves his big, wide head in Bucky’s mis-matched palms. 

“I was a wreck when I got back. I couldn’t stand New York anymore because every time a car backfired it would send me right back there. My birthday is the Fourth of July, you know.” Steve’s voice is as soft as the music but Bucky can hear him. 

Bucky takes his metal hand off Dodger and tangles his fingers with Steve’s. He doesn’t have any words. There’s nothing that can make this easier. 

“So I uprooted everything and came here. I wanted to stop fighting and look for some peace. I know I seem like some simple country boy to you now,” Steve continues with a wry smile that Bucky can’t help but return, “But I was even worse than you when we first got here.” 

It’s too much for Bucky, sitting here with the music playing and Steve holding his hand and looking at him so softly. It’s enough to make Bucky want to squirm away. He doesn’t deserve this. He hasn’t even been _nice_ to Steve. 

The song on the record changes, and Bucky finds himself leaning back into the couch cushions, looking up at the ceiling as memories wash over him. 

“Billie Holiday was always my favorite.” Bucky’s flesh hand finds its way to the spot across his ribs where the bullet would have punched its way out of him given the chance, “Maybe you’re right. Don’t tell anyone I said that, but...I could use a little peace.”

Days pass this way. Bucky had thought he would rankle against having nothing to do, but he finds himself actually enjoying spending time around Steve’s house. Natasha pops by every few days to update him on her recon, but she seems to have no intention of letting him get up to help. She’s found a web of five interconnected cells around the state and both of them know it will take more than just the two of them to take that out. They’re playing the long game here. And while Bucky knows that the time will come soon for him to pick up his shield again, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying a little R&R.

Steve continues acting strangely, distant, though he’s trying to cover it up. He hasn’t touched Bucky again, even casually. He goes quiet at odd times, gaze pensive and far away. Despite knowing about Bucky’s accelerated healing, Steve seems incredulous that Bucky can just bounce back from a gunshot the way that he has, and he keeps insisting on checking Bucky’s movement, making sure there are no problems with his spine or his ribs. 

Bucky makes the best of it. He teases Steve about his choice of books (almost all biographies or history texts), his taste in television (c’mon Steve, Friends?). He even plays with Dodger. 

Poor Dodger can’t keep up with Bucky’s games of fetch. He tries, runs until his tongue is lolling and his sides are heaving, but Bucky throws a big frisbee like a major league pitcher,and the dog is just trying his best. 

“Would you stop trying to put my dog into cardiac arrest and come in for lunch?” Steve calls through the kitchen window out into the yard where Bucky has just wrestled the frisbee away from the panting dog. 

“It’s not my fault he keeps bringing it back!” Bucky shouts in reply before tucking the slightly soggy frisbee under his arm and turning to head inside. 

Steve is more open about things. He tells Bucky about his service, which Bucky is surprised he can relate to. Apparently the Army hasn’t changed much since he was in it. Bucky, in turn, tries his best to tell Steve about his life when he wasn’t being Captain America.

But not all the stories are good ones. Most of them in fact, aren’t.

When things get a little too rural for him Bucky calls Natasha. 

“How’s your R&R going?” Natasha’s voice is distorted slightly, static somewhere on the line between them. She hasn’t told Bucky where she is, and he hasn’t asked. 

“It’s...nice.” Bucky says honestly, looking around Steve’s living room. Dodger has set up permanent residence between his feet, and Bucky has been alternating between flipping through files on the town and on potential Shield-related cases. “I don’t think I’ve had two weeks to myself since I started my accounting job in 1934.” 

“I can’t believe you were planning to be an _accountant_.” Natasha is now clearly on the move, talking more quietly but not interrupting their conversation. He hears a squawk of surprise from someone as she no-doubt takes them down with some ridiculously acrobatic flip. Classic Widow.   
“It paid well and I’m good with numbers. I wasn’t always an international super-spy.” 

“You’re still not. You’re Captain America. Despite my many attempts to teach you to the contrary you stubbornly stay a good man. That mission in Chernivtsi aside.” 

“Everybody has to have a character flaw.” Bucky takes the slightly slimy tennis ball that Dodger has brought him and lobs it down the hallway, careful not to throw it too hard and send it through the wall. 

“Take as much time as you need coming in,” Natasha says after a brief pause where Bucky hears the sizzle of her widows’ bites, wincing in sympathy for whatever poor bastard she has her hooks in. 

“I’m still working the case.” Bucky sighs, tossing the latest file folder onto the pile on the coffee table. “But it seems like whatever is happening here, was happening I should say, is tied to a larger base elsewhere. I think I might be done here.” 

Natasha is silent for long enough that Bucky is worried he’s lost her, but just as he’s about to check that she’s still on the line she finally speaks again.   
“We can always handle it if you think you need to stay.”   
“Why would I need to stay? This is my job, Tasha. I know you think I work too hard, which, by the way there’s a certain kettle I’d like to introduce you to-”   
“Slow down. I’m not trying to brush you off. I’m just saying that maybe you could take some personal time. You said yourself that you’ve pretty much never gotten a break, and no, being frozen in a glacier does not count. Just think about it.” 

Bucky frowns, glaring at the entertainment center as if it’s personally wronged him, “You’re not so subtle. I’m not just going to stay here with Steve because he’s got a cute dog and a tight ass.” 

“I wasn’t implying anything. Just saying you should consider it. I’d stay for an ass like that.” She leaves Bucky making shocked and embarrassed noises and signs off with, “Widow out.”Then there’s just the static of a blank comm line. 

Bucky is pulled out of his thoughts by Steve coming home, the jingle of his keys alerting both Bucky and Dodger, with the latter shooting off to go and do his best impression of a fur-lined tornado. 

Bucky lounges on the couch until Steve comes around the corner from the entryway, hair sticking up from wearing his hat all day in an effort to shade his face. His ears are still bright red. The mental image of Steve in a large floppy sun hat makes Bucky smile, and of course Steve chooses that moment to look at him. 

“What are you grinning about?” Steve’s tone is too soft to be anything but fond, he runs his hands through his hair once more and it only adds to the hair nest sitting atop his head. 

“Nothing. How’s the town?” 

Steve shrugs, bending down to scratch Dodger before sinking onto the couch beside Bucky while he mulled the thought over like a physical weight. Had something happened?

“Normal.” Steve finally says, loosening the laces on his boots, “Too normal if you ask me, but maybe I’m just getting too used to your brand of crazy.” 

Bucky jostles Steve, bumping their shoulders together, hoping to coax a grin out of him. It worked. 

“You can mull it over while we eat dinner. I made soup. Go wash up and we can eat.” If cutting vegetables into perfectly even and identical squares for over an hour had given Bucky a little more pleasure than normal, then who was to blame him, he was bored. 

It was good to see the way that Steve relaxed as they eat, tension dissolving from him as Bucky recounted one of his less successful missions. They wind up sitting at the corner of the broad wooden table that Steve had set up in a dining room that he admitted to hardly ever using, legs occasionally brushing under the table. Bucky can’t remember ever being this happy, but he pushes the welling emotions to the back of his mind. Can’t examine that right now. He can do it later. 

Pleasantly full of soup and bread they laze on the couch until Steve starts to doze off, Bucky tucking himself into the space under Steve’s arm, soaking up his body heat through yet another sweater, leaning against his solid weight. Did Steve only own the softest clothes known to man? Even an old t-shirt was soft and well-worn and homey. Dodger had long since abandoned them to go sleep on Steve’s bed, disappointed that BUcky hadn’t given him any chicken scraps after dinner. 

“Hey Steve?” Bucky whispers, turning to look up at Steve properly. Steve’s eyes snap open and he looks a little guilty, blinking a few times to try and convince them both he’dbeen awake. 

“Yeah Buck?” Steve’s voice is thick with sleep and he speaks no louder than Bucky had. 

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky twists a little further, bringing his metal hand around to rest on Steve’s chest. The arm around his shoulders squeezes gently. 

“Of course.” Steve smiles softly, eyes crinkling around the edges, and Bucky reaches up to press their lips together. 

It’s a soft kiss, welcoming and with no pretext for anything more. Different than the rushed and forceful kisses that they had shared before that mission. Bucky sighs softly, turning himself to lean more fully onto Steve’s chest, then again when Steve’s arms come up to hold him. Gentle, so gentle. 

Bucky pulls away, rubbing his thumb over Steve’s cheek, heart so full that he feels he may burst. 

Movement catches the corner of his eye and he looks up, past Steve, to the picture window, the darkened forest outside. The figure of a man materializes out of the trees just as the lights inside the house cut out. 

“Down!” Bucky shouts, wrestling out of Steve’s hold. 

He heaves himself over the back of the couch, planning to go for his shield only to realize he’d left it in his room. He hadn’t exactly planned to be attacked here. He barely has time to bring his arms up, blocking with the left out of habit, as a smoke grenade smashes through the window and directly into his chest. 

The whole room dissolves into chaos, the fractured window exploding into a rain of glass as men smash their way inside. Bucky wheezes as the smoke fills the room, turning familiar shapes into indistinct looming blobs and stinging his eyes, making it hard to focus on how many combatants they were looking at. He recovers from the blow to the chest quickly enough to throw the now-empty canister at one of the men, sliding down to one knee to knock another off balance. 

“Steve!” Bucky shouts, taking cover behind the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. Where is Steve? Heart firmly in his throat, Bucky twists to grab another guy as he pokes himself around the wall, wrestling his gun from his hands and smashing him in the face with the butt of the stock. These bastards are destroying Steve’s house! He curses loudly as one of them knocks over a lamp, the bulb throwing light everywhere before it bursts on impact.

Suddenly, out of the darkened hallway Bucky sees Steve emerge, the flash of muzzle fire illuminating him for a split second.   
He’s holding Bucky’s shield. 

Bucky is glad that he’s on the floor, because he’s struck completely dumb by the way that Steve wrenches up the shield, vaulting over the couch, and turning it on its side to create a barrier, even as he slams the shield into the man who had fired at him. It’s like watching a dance, or some sort of violent gymnastics routine - Steve wielding Bucky’s shield like it was an extension of his arm, tucking himself completely behind it in a way that seemed completely impossible by the size of Steve’s shoulders alone. 

Another flash of muzzle fire and Bucky snaps back into the fight, grabbing an ankle as a man tried to flank Steve, and heaving the man up and into another. 

Steve backpedals until he’s up against the wall next to Bucky, much to both of their surprises. 

“Hey handsome.” Steve is grinning, eyes wild, “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“I hate you,” Bucky barely has time to choke out before the _ping ping ping_ of bullets on the shield rings out. Steve throws his arm around Bucky, using the shield to cover them both. 

“Brace yourself,” Bucky whispers, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek. 

“Wha-” Steve only gets half the word out before Bucky grabs him by the shirt and launches him like a piece of furniture at the closest enemy. 

Steve recovers surprisingly quickly, leveling the guy with a punch that he doesn’t get up from. “A little warning next time!” 

Fighting with Steve is easy, both of them flowing with and around each other in an effortless kind of wave that falls into some deep-seated muscle memory. Bucky ends up with the shield again only to toss is back to Steve when he needs the cover. There’s no way to explain how, but they fight like a coordinated unit, and it isn’t long before they’ve taken everyone out. 

When it’s finally quiet, Bucky finds that Steve is still holding Bucky’s shield strapped to his arm. It looks good on him, like it belongs there. 

They come together again in the living room, both panting and covered in dust. There’s a spot under Bucky’s ribs on the right side that he knows is going to hurt in the morning, but he has to make sure that Steve is okay. 

Steve seems more than okay, he’s panting and there’s a cut on his cheek and blood on his shirt from a graze, but he doesn’t seem to be seriously injured at all. He is, however, still grinning like he’s completely lost his mind. That smile falls off his face when he meets Bucky’s eyes.

“It’s...been a while since I had a proper fight,” is all he offers by way of explanation, testing the lights to see if they’ll turn on again; they don’t. 

“Shit, where’s Dodger?” Bucky tightens his hold on Steve’s arm, insides going cold. 

Steve peels away from him, disappearing down the dark hall for a moment. Bucky hears the creak of a door opening and then the clatter of Dodger’s nails on the floor. Steve returns, dog in tow, and Bucky physically sags with relief. 

Steve is still smiling, but it’s softer. “Dodger’s fine. I shut him in my room as soon as you told me to find cov-” Bucky cuts Steve off, grabbing him and pulling him into a heated kiss. 

When they break apart Bucky leans against Steve’s chest, catching his breath. “You’re crazy. They destroyed your house… I’m so sorry.” 

Steve sighs, Bucky can feel his breath ruffle his hair. “It’s just a house. I can have it repaired. As long as you’re alright.” 

Bucky looks up at him again, wordless and feeling torn open like a fresh wound. This was supposed to be a safe place, and now he’s brought Steve into this mess. 

“And hey, good thing I went to grab this.” Steve taps his other hand on the shield and it rings softly, “Might have to get me one of these.” 

“You most certainly will not.” Bucky snorts out a laugh, turning to stand the couch back up and wrinkling his nose at the new holes it’s sporting, “I should call Natasha, let her know what happened.” 

“It’s late.” Steve interjects, sliding the shield off his arm, “We’ve got them handled, we can get a few hours rest before we have to start filing reports, okay?” 

“You want to just leave these guys here on your floor?” Bucky kicks one of their boots with his socked foot. The man may or may not be dead. He hopes it’s the latter. 

“Okay...maybe you should call Natasha.” Steve looks sheepish and Bucky can’t decide if he wants to kiss him or smack him upside the head. 

He does neither, but he does go and fetch his phone while Steve makes an attempt to clean up the living room, sequestering Dodger on the couch to keep him from getting glass shards in his paws. 

Natasha picks up on the second ring. 

“Hey Tasha,” Bucky sighs, feeling exhaustion threatening to drag him down, “There’s been an incident.” 

Bucky only realises that he didn’t know where Natasha was until she arrives two hours later dressed in sweats and a baggy t-shirt, a bag slung over her shoulder and a roll of tape around her arm. 

“Wow,” Steve pipes up from his spot fishing bullets out of the couch, “That was amazingly fast. I thought you weren’t in town anymore.” 

Natasha shoots him a sharp smile and lobs the duffle bag at Bucky, “Never underestimate my ability to get somewhere. There’s a covert facility up the valley that’s been my base of operations. There’s plastic in that bag; I assume you’ve taken any pertinent evidence off these guys?” 

Bucky gestures to the ziplock bags they’ve carefully arranged on the coffee table and she nods, pulling a strip of tape off the roll. “Weren’t going to tell me about it?” 

“Nope. You’re busy here.” Natasha bends down to wrap her arms under the shoulders of the nearest goon and heaves him across the floor.   
They make surprisingly quick work of the living room, though there’s no saving the window or the furniture. The plastic disappears and the tape comes in particularly handy to deal with the mess of limbs that they’re contending with. Natasha’s trunk fills up fast. 

“I assume my homeowners’ insurance doesn’t cover attacks by groups of bad guys.” Steve wrinkles his nose as he pokes his finger into a bullet hole in the wall. 

Natasha pulls a business card out of her pocket and hands it to Steve, “I think Shield can work something out that will get your windows fixed.”   
Steve grins at her and pockets the card. “Did we get all the glass? Can I let Dodger out of the bedroom now?” 

Natasha is braced for the bundle of fur that launches itself at her when Dodger is released from his makeshift prison, but she still sways, and Bucky is surprised to hear her snort out a laugh as the dog bounces around her knees. 

“Lady’s man,” Bucky murmurs to himself as Natasha scratches Dodger’s belly. 

“So can we stay here tonight?” Steve asks when they’ve finally gotten everything as straight as they can. Natasha squints at him from her place on the perforated couch. 

“You want to stay here? I can get you into protective custody.” 

Steve plants his hands on his hips, weight cocked onto one leg. “Nah, this is my house, I don’t want to leave. I can call Sam in the morning and see if he’ll let me kip with him until they can get the windows fixed.” 

Bucky gapes at him. “They came to your house and shot at you, you psychopath. Why would you want to stay here?” 

Steve shrugs, hands still firmly on his hips, “You think they’re going to try again in one night?” 

“If they shoot at you again don’t come crying to me,” Bucky huffs.

In the end Natasha deems the place safe enough for them to catch a few hours of sleep there, upon Steve’s stubborn refusal to leave the premises until the sun comes up.

Natasha catches Bucky’s arm after she’s gathered all her crime scene supplies. 

“I’ll come and pick you up in the morning. Flight out of Spokane at 10.” 

Bucky nods stiffly, turning to give her a somewhat awkward hug that she readily returns. What he doesn’t expect is Steve’s expression when he turns back around. 

“You’re leaving?” Steve is trying to keep a brave face, but his eyes look so sad that Bucky wants to kiss away the wrinkle of tension between his brows. 

“Yeah, I have to figure out who these guys are and take them out so that they don’t come back. My research here is done.” 

Steve turns his eyes down and Bucky swears he sees him take a deep breath and brace himself before he looks up again. The wall is back up, firmly in place the way it had been before. Bucky hadn’t missed that wall. 

“Steve-” 

“No. No it’s fine. I understand. I can’t ask you to stay.” Steve steps forward and presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “I’m going to bed. I’m real tired after...all this.” 

Before Bucky can even think of anything to say, Steve has clicked his tongue for Dodger, and the two of them have disappeared down the hall.


	6. What Comes After - Steve

Steve doesn’t sleep much, if at all. He lies on the bed feeling both completely exhausted and wired at the same time. Dodger has no problems sleeping, even after they’d been literally attacked in their home, but his soft snores don’t have their usual effect of lulling Steve to sleep. 

Bucky is leaving. Steve had know he would be, but he’d foolishly hoped that he would have more time. There was something between them; they both knew it, but was it enough? Was it as much to Bucky as it was to Steve? 

After the better part of an hour lying and agonizing over his own feelings, Steve hears muttered curses through the wall and slides out from under the sheets to investigate. He’d heard the shower turn off about 15 minutes ago and he has no idea what Bucky is up to now.

He paces down the hall and peers into the guest room where Bucky is engaged in some sort of contortionist act trying to get his Cap suit back on. Steve watches him twist and mutter under his breath, but it seems that he can’t get the zipper pulled up and the clasps on the damn torso section to go together at the same time. Bucky gives it one more wiggle and then finally turns to the door. 

“Steve-” Bucky’s voice comes out a little more whiny than Steve had expected, but when Bucky holds out the plate Steve takes it from his wordlessly, snapping it into place with no problems. His fingers linger at Bucky’s hips and Bucky turns to lean into Steve’s embrace. Steve immediately dances backwards away from him, heart aching. Bucky is leaving, he can’t- 

Bucky goes red, though it appears to be with anger and not embarrassment, his metal arm actually whirring softly in the silent room. “Why are you being like this Steve? You don’t have to act so...self-sacrificing or mopey, or whatever the hell it is that you’re doing. Are you regretting saving me or something? You know that I can’t stay here. I’m Captain America!” Bucky practically snarls the words out. It’s clear that he’s upset and Steve doesn’t want to fight on Bucky’s last night here. Please not right now. 

“You saved _my_ life Bucky! I don’t-” Steve doesn’t even get half the words out before Bucky cuts him off. 

“Natasha told me what happened. You saved me just as much. Kept me from bleeding out. I watched you take out that strike squad last night, Steve. You know why I have to leave.” 

“Natasha fished out the bullet.” Steve has gone mulish again, arguing the semantics because he knows that Bucky is right. He damn well knows that Bucky has to leave. He understands. That doesn’t mean that he’s happy about it. “I was too afraid to hurt you. There was a lot of blood, I couldn’t-“  
“So we’re square then.” Bucky doesn’t give Steve a moment to argue, “I’m going and you’re not. You’re going to stay here and be safe. You won’t have to lie to me to protect me if you’re not there.” 

“Buck-” 

“Steve, I’ve been Captain America for a long time, I think I can still handle myself.” 

Steve doesn’t expect the words to hit him like a physical blow but they do, and he clutches one hand to his chest like it might protect him. “I get it.” Steve says, finally meeting Bucky’s eyes, “You can get by on your own. I know how it is. You don’t need to stay for me.” 

_We hardly even know each other_ , Steve’s brain supplies. There’s no reason for Bucky to stay here with me. There’s nothing for him here. 

The thing is- Bucky is the most beautiful man Steve has ever seen, it twists up something in Steve’s chest. He can’t just _say_ that. It’s easier to tease Bucky about his big forehead and his frog mouth and his silly Brooklyn accent that he tries so hard to hide. This thing between them, animosity turned camaraderie turned to something fond - it was familiar. There was something between them, like a magnet pulled apart only to snap back together. 

Steve looks up only when Bucky steps into his space. 

“I used to know this little blond punk in Brooklyn.” Bucky’s metal hand slides gently up Steve’s arm and Steve can’t help but shudder. “It’s been so long I...I nearly forgot. But he drove me crazy the same way that you do. Thing is...I don’t really believe in fate, but that little punk got my blood running.” 

“You must have a type.” Steve’s tone is teasing but his eyes are serious. This is clearly something that’s been on Bucky’s mind for a while. “What happened to him?” 

“I don’t know. History doesn’t remember him, but I do sometimes. He was a good man. You remind me of him.” 

“You telling me you believe in past lives or something?” There’s some part in the back of Steve’s mind that conjures up a smaller, skinnier Bucky, without the metal arm. Surrounded by soft golden brown like an old sepia photograph. It seems so real that he can almost taste the stale New York air, the drone of a radio in the corner. 

“I’ve lived a few lives in my time. Maybe this one is another chance to do something right..” Bucky hasn’t made any mention of Steve moving closer, but now Steve has him backed up against the kitchen wall, a mirror of that night before. 

“You missed your chance with him.” Steve doesn’t ask it like a question, but Bucky nods anyway. 

“I plan to take full advantage of this one.” Bucky grabs a handful of Steve’s sweater, pulling him into a kiss.

Steve can’t help but grin against Bucky’s lips, kissing him soft and teasing. Bucky cups one hand against the base of his skull and Steve lets himself get a little lost in the press of their lips. 

“Does full advantage let me take you to bed?” Steve gazes down at Bucky, lopsided grin on full-force. Bucky only smiles back and nods, letting out a startled laugh when Steve bends down to pick him up. He only grunts a little hoisting him into his arms. 

“Metal arm makes me a little heavier than I look.” Bucky buries his nose into Steve’s neck, kissing at the skin he finds above the collar of his sweater.

A smile splits Steve’s face again when he tosses Bucky onto the bed and he bounces with a startled laugh, immediately making himself comfortable amid the pillows as he watches Steve banish Dodger from the room with promises to give him extra treats later. 

“As much as I like that sweater,” Bucky says as he sits up to start the complicated process of removing the layers of his Cap suit, “Why don’t you lose it and come over here?” 

Steve does as he’s told, stripping out of the sweater and crawling onto the bed next to Bucky. He doesn’t have to wait long for Bucky to pull him by the back of the neck into another kiss. Between them they get Bucky down to his underthings, and Steve’s grin turns to a smirk when his fingers catch the edge of a very familiar item of clothing. 

“I almost forgot about this.” Steve presses his smirk into Bucky’s neck, snapping the jockstrap against Bucky’s hip just to hear him gasp and swear.   
“Yeah yeah, laugh it up.” Bucky’s fingers have been busy too, and he presses the cool metal ones to the small of Steve’s back, running them down over the curve of his ass.   
Steve pulls away far enough to admire Bucky where he’s got him pinned against the bed, his hair already a mess and his cheeks flushed. He looks sinful, and Steve can’t help but lick his lips, an action that Bucky mirrors immediately. Eventually Steve’s eyes fall to the mess of scars littering Bucky’s left shoulder, and he feels his expression fall slightly. Bucky just gazes at him, allowing Steve to look. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks, gently tracing his fingers over the places where metal dips below skin, the mountains and valleys of scar tissue under his fingers. 

“Sometimes,” Bucky replies, curling his metal fingers against Steve’s bicep and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t you go getting all sappy on me, yeah?” 

Steve shakes his head, fond smile returning. “You got it, Captain.” 

Bucky snorts, slapping his flesh hand against Steve’s thigh. “Horrible. Kiss me?” 

Steve does as he’s told, sighing happily as Bucky tangles his fingers back into his hair, running his own fingers under the elastic edge of Bucky’s underwear. If you can call it underwear. 

Eventually Bucky becomes impatient, pulling Steve closer and hooking a leg around his hips to better keep him where he wants, the hot line of his cock pressed into Steve’s hip. Steve takes the hint, wiggling out of his last items of clothing and folding his hands over Bucky’s ribs when he sits up, swiping his thumbs over Bucky’s nipples to make him squirm. 

“Steve - ah!” Bucky hisses out a pleased noise when Steve pushes his hips down to give Buck some friction, grin firmly back in place. 

“We _should_ get you a Captain America themed one I think.” Steve snaps the elastic against Bucky’s skin again, other hand coming up to rub at the obscene bulge of Bucky’s cock. 

“Terrible- oh fuck.” Bucky chokes out, hips rising up to meet Steve’s hand. 

Steve leans down to swipe his tongue over the leaking head of Bucky’s cock where it peeks out of the top of his jock, holding his hips down with both hands. 

Bucky lets out a colorful string of curses, gazing down at Steve with pupils blown wide and dark. 

“Got such a nice cock,” Steve murmurs against the cut of Bucky’s hip, “Mind if I suck it?” 

Bucky gasps out a moan, nodding only to throw his head back when Steve slurps the head into his mouth. 

It’s been a while since Steve’s done this, not since he’d been in basic for the Army, but he forces himself to ease into it, watching Bucky’s reactions as he relaxes his jaw and very slowly bobs his head. He doesn’t bother removing the jock, just nudges it out of the way of his lips. 

Bucky turns his face into his shoulder when Steve circles his tongue around the head again and swallows reflexively to keep spit from dribbling out the corners of his mouth. Even if he hadn’t been out of practice Steve doubts that he could take the whole thing. Bucky’s cock is thick and heavy against his tongue, making his jaw ache in an entirely pleasant way. Bucky is delightfully responsive, small whimpers of pleasure leaving his lips whenever Steve does something he likes. 

When Steve pulls away to pull in a few fresh lungfuls of air he can feel Bucky’s thighs trembling under his fingers. He presses a damp kiss to Bucky’s hipbone and slides over to the bedside table, digging around for a moment to find the things he’s looking for. 

Bucky’s metal hand comes up to trace over the curve of his ass again, making Steve fumble the bottle in his hands and he has to make a grab for it again. 

“Sorry.” Bucky does not sound sorry in the least. 

Steve gives Bucky a look that is supposed to be stern but is likely closer to fond, if Bucky’s laugh is anything to go by. 

Steve turns to crowd Bucky onto his back on the sheets, pinching one of his nipples in retaliation before giving him another kiss. 

Bucky sighs happily, rolling their hips together and hitching one leg up over Steve’s back once more to pull him closer and grind their hips together.

“Where were we? I think you were doing something with that lube, ah-” Bucky gasps as Steve untangles himself to yank Bucky down the bed, settling between his legs and lapping at the spots of precome that have collected near Bucky’s navel. 

Steve wastes no more time popping the cap on the bottle and getting his fingers slick, all the while licking at Bucky’s cock and biting marks into the inside of his thighs. Bucky’s got his flesh hand in Steve’s hair, or occasionally fluttering over the back of his neck when Steve does something he really likes. The metal hand is tight around the bed frame above his head and Steve can hear it creaking. 

Bucky makes the prettiest noises with Steve’s fingers drilling him, hot and desperate. By the time Steve adds a third finger Bucky chokes out what could be a sob. 

“Steve fuck, please, I’m ready, just-“ Bucky’s eyes are damp, muscles in his thighs jumping from where they rest on Steve’s legs to keep him in place.

Steve can’t help but tease him just that little bit more, twisting his fingers and squeezing Bucky’s balls. 

“Uh- oh fuck Steve I’m-“ Bucky barely gasps out the words before his muscles lock up and he’s coming in long spurts of white across his belly. 

Steve watches him shake apart, gently working him through the aftershocks until Bucky squirms away from that edge of overstimulation. 

“Sorry.” Steve is grinning anyway, not disappointed in the slightest after that show. Watching Bucky come will be seared into his brain forever. “God, you’re pretty.” 

Bucky has caught his breath again and he runs his fingers through the mess of his own hair. Steve watches him with hungry eyes.“You underestimate me.” Bucky’s grin is sly, “I didn’t just get a star-spangled outfit with this promotion. Can come as many times as I want, and I can’t get or pass on anything unsavory, so you don’t need the condom if you don’t want.” 

Steve blinks at him, looking down to see that indeed Bucky hasn’t gone soft at all, recovered as quickly as his breath. “Oh fuck,” Steve whispers, distinctly turned on by the idea of making Bucky come over and over. 

“That’s what we were doing. So why don’t you?” Bucky let’s his legs fall open and Steve can’t help but lean down to bite at his thighs again. 

The feeling of sinking inside Bucky is almost too much. Steve bends over him to press his forehead into Bucky’s metal shoulder, taking a moment to compose himself once he’s in all the way. Bucky presses a kiss to his temple before Steve leverages himself up and arranges Bucky’s legs how he wants them, fingers sinking into his thighs as he pulls back and snaps his hips forward. 

Bucky nearly shouts in pleasure, servos in his arm whirring loudly as Steve hooks his legs over his shoulders, bending him almost in half. 

It’s intense. Steve had known it would be, but Bucky isn’t one to lie there and take it, he’s digging his nails into Steve’s bicep where he can reach it, petal pink lips parted to let sweet, desperate noises out between them. When he can get a breath he begs softly, words brushing up against Steve’s heated skin. 

_More, please, harder, right there-_

“Take it so good.” Steve’s voice is only a little breathy, but it makes Bucky tighten up around him like a vise. “Oh god-“ 

“Keep talking,” Bucky gasps, worming his metal hand between them to stroke his cock. 

It’s the hottest thing Steve has ever seen, the contrast of the red-flushed head of Bucky’s cock against the shiny smooth metal of his fingers. The feeling of the cool smooth plates brushing against his belly with every stroke light him up. He’s babbling, can’t even hear what he’s saying over the roar of blood in his ears but Bucky seems to be enjoying it just the same. 

They both groan when Bucky comes again, and Steve is abruptly confronted by the sight of sticky come dribbling over that shiny metal, Bucky’s chest heaving and his mouth parted around desperate little hurt sounds. It must be so intense, not having a chance to come down. 

Steve wants more; he doesn’t want to ever stop fucking Bucky, but he can feel his orgasm shooting down his spine, pooling in his belly. 

“Bucky, oh fuck Bucky…” Steve has more to say, how beautiful and perfect Bucky is, how much he cares for him, might even love him. Oh god, he loves him. But instead his orgasm crests and Steve is left shaking apart in the best possible way. 

When he flops onto Bucky’s chest he presses gentle kisses to the span of his collarbones as he waits for his brain to come back online. Bucky buries his nose in Steve’s hair. 

“Better not lie there too long or you’ll be stuck to me forever.” 

Steve snorts out a laugh and shoves at him, taking a long moment to kiss him before making an attempt to stand. 

After returning with a damp cloth Steve flops into bed again, swiping at the come now drying in his chest hair with a sigh. He can shower in the morning. Bucky seems much the same thought, tossing the rag expertly into the hamper across the room before pulling Steve into his arms. 

Steve has a lot to say, but he knows post-orgasm maybe isn’t the best time. He can tell Bucky when they wake up. Bucky wouldn’t leave without waking him. 

 

 

Steve wakes up alone. Some part of him knew that he would but it still stings. The far side of the bed still bears the slightest bit of warmth from when Bucky had rolled out of it, and Steve crawls into that space and buries his face into the pillow. 

Some time later Steve hears Dodger’s claws clicking their way down the hall, and he turns his head to smile as the dog noses the door open.   
“Hey pal. Bucky let you out before he went?” 

Dodger, of course, doesn’t reply, but he does jump up on the bed nosing his way under Steve’s arm to cuddle against him. Steve doesn’t notice until later the sticky note carefully tucked under his phone. It’s got a number on it, and Steve realizes that he didn’t even have Bucky’s phone number before now. Boy, he really did like to do things out of order sometimes. 

Steve doesn’t call, thought he wants to as soon as he realizes what it is. There’s a message scrawled under the number.   
_Gotta see this through, but you’re not getting rid of me that easy._

Sam is too good to him when Steve shows up on his doorstep, accommodating and kind and patient. He doesn’t mention Bucky. Steve knows he’s being a sad-sack, but that doesn’t mean he can help it. Every time his phone buzzes he hopes that it’s Bucky. He texts the number that Bucky gave him a few times in the first few days, knowing he can’t face calling and not having Bucky answer. 

Bucky doesn’t text back, and after a few weeks Steve stops trying. 

The guys that fix his house are nice enough, but they don’t interact with Steve. They just show up one day, and by the end of the week Steve’s house is in such good shape that it’s like they’ve waved a magic wand over everything, and it’s as if the destruction had never happened. 

Now the only evidence that Bucky had even been there at all was in Steve’s memories and in the phone number on his cell. 

Sam, Sharon, and Clint don’t ask, and even Kate seems to understand not to say anything. Steve isn’t sure if it helps or makes things worse. 

Winter traps him inside but Steve doesn’t turn on the news, just isolates himself in his house when he’s not at work. He can get through this. The only reason he’s so fixated on this is because there’s nothing to do in the winter around here unless you want to go snowshoeing. 

By March Steve starts to feel like less of a soul-sucking cloud of depression roving from one place to the next. He’s got his job, he’s got his friends, and he’s glad for it. The few weeks that he stays with Sam are fun, and even after, he comes over a few times a week to watch a football game or play pool. Sam almost always loses. 

The first really nice spring day Steve takes Dodger out into the woods, jogging the familiar trail and trying and failing to keep his dog out of the worst of the mud. Just because it’s spring doesn’t mean it’d be dry up here. By the time Dodger has tired himself out and plodded back to Steve he is covered belly-down in mud and Steve has to spend the next fifteen minutes trying to scrub him clean enough to let him back into the Jeep. 

There is a car in his driveway. Steve pulls into his normal spot and tries to push his heart back out of his throat. As soon as he opens the door Dodger shoots out past him and Steve feels a little dizzy when Bucky pushes the door open and steps out of the black sedan. 

Stumbling in his haste to get out of the Jeep Steve almost winds up with his face in the dirt, but he manages to keep himself up, feeling dizzy with joy at seeing Bucky again. He wants to run over and scoop Bucky into his arms but he forces himself to walk calmly over to where Bucky is now berating Dodger for smearing mud all over his dark jeans. 

“Heya Buck.” Steve’s voice isn’t as even as he was hoping, and his breath catches in his chest when Bucky looks up at him. 

“Hey Stevie.” Bucky grins at him and Steve feels something deep inside him slot into place, like the last tumbler of a lock clicking open. 

“Missed you.” Steve steps forward and pulls Bucky into a tight hug. Bucky lets out a startled laugh and buries his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

“Missed you too, punk.” Bucky pulls away only far enough to catch Steve’s lips in a kiss. “Sorry I took so long.” 

Steve doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he feels a little giddy with seeing Bucky again. “How long are you here?” 

Bucky brushes his metal thumb over Steve’s cheek, eyes soft, and Steve knows he looks just the same. “Figured I’d stay as long as you’d have me. You haven’t seen the news?” 

Steve frowns at him, leaning away but keeping Bucky in his arms. “No, why?” 

Bucky snorts out a laugh, digging his phone out of his jeans and opening up the news app. 

The front line reads: 

_”Captain America retires, Shield disbanded after alleged ties with terrorist organizations. What does this mean for the Avengers?” ___

__Steve blinks at the phone for a long minute. “That’s why you were away so long? Those guys were Hydra? In Shield?”_ _

__Bucky curls his lip, looking disgusted. “Yes. I didn’t mean to be gone for so long but I knew I was being monitored and I knew you would get all self-sacrificing if I called you.” He grinned at Steve’s flat expression._ _

__“I put you through enough, I couldn’t let you do any more or watch you get hurt. It’s my fight, and I finished it. But now that it’s done I told the Avengers where they could shove it when they asked me to help them more. Told them I’m a hundred years old, I’m retiring. Though maybe I didn’t say it as nicely as I could have. Seems their tentacles are closer than I thought, but Natasha seems to be more than happy to weed them out. I already died to get rid of them once. I won’t do it again.”_ _

__Steve’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “Horrible. And you call me the dramatic one.”_ _

__“You are dramatic,.” Bucky fires back, “Now, why don’t you take me inside? We apparently have to hose down your dog and I don’t want to wear this to do it.”_ _

__“Whatever you say, Cap.” Steve slings his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. Bucky jabs his metal elbow into Steve’s side but Steve just laughs._ _

__“Not Captain America anymore. Now you’re stuck with Bucky Barnes. There’s gotta be some fun we can get up to out here in the middle of nowhere, right?”_ _


End file.
